AGLE CLIPPINGS
BY
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NEWSPAPER CORRESPONDENT
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STORY TELLER
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AUTHORS CORRECTIONS.
15th page, 14th line from bottom: "to see shackled hands"
26th page, 13th line from top: "a very unpleasant — yea ag-
gravating malady."
Page 29, 4th line from top: "a cry of indignation that would
have shaken the very temple of the Caesars"
45th page, 8th line from top: "Two boy criminals"; 5th line
from bottom R. S. King's letter: "let the law enjoy its" etc.
106th page, 14th line from top: "high ceilinged room"
81st page, 9th line from top: "Stoically returning a blow given
in jest"
DAVID B. FULTON, Publisher
I59-6l WlLLOUGHBY AVE.
Brooklyn, N. Y.
Read carefully Introductory Note, please.
L.avinia k/£.. tTultot
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Digitized by the Internet Archive
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a
EAGLE CLIPPINGS"
BY
JACK THORNE pS ^
NEWSPAPER CORRESPONDENT AND
STORY TELLER
A COLLECTION OF HIS WRITINGS TO
VARIOUS NEWSPAPERS
GRATEFULLY DEDICATED TO THE SONS
OF NORTH CAROLINA, OF BOROUGH
OF BROOKLYN, CITY OF NEW YORK
Copyrighted by D. B. Fulton
All rights reserved
3fatrolmctorp J£ote
It zvas said to me one day, by a once highly esteemed
friend of mine, during a hot controversy over a disputed
bill for printing, that I was an eccentric on the Race ques-
tion. This taunt from the lips of one of my own people, a
man who had my confidence, who seemed heartily in sym-
pathy with me, advising me in the construction of at least
a few of my many contributions to daily and weekly papers,
somewhat chilled $>y ardor in the work of defense — for
after all, in all of my writings on the Race question, I have
simply been on the defensive, answering traducers and en-
deavoring to ward off the blows aimed at my people by the
enemy.
When constructing Hanover, many of my friends who
listened to the readings, were apprehensive and fearful for
my safety, in spite of the fact that I was so far removed
from the scene of the awful tragedy which the story relates.
Other readers of Hanover and other contributions have
said with no feigned anxiety, "Your pen is a very venomous
weapon. You are doubtless right; I admire your grit,
but you might make it a trifle milder," etc. These appre-
hensions were not without warrant. I fully believe that the
attempt on the part of the officials of the institution in
which I was employed for four years, to injure my reputa-
tion, and send me from their employ, branded as a felon,
-*» was the result of my defense of my people in the columns
v") of the "Eagle" ; that the "Eagle's" final refusal to further
consider my contributions, are the result of influences
r- 3
brought to bear from the same source. Yet in the follow-
ing pages I will prove to the reader that every article from
my pen upon the Race question was called forth by the
anamidversions hurled from the other side.
Although the entire contents of this little book are not
clippings from the columns of the "Brooklyn Daily Eagle,"
I have thought it best to give it the title "Eagle Clippings,"
because I hold the "Eagle" in high esteem for its broad
democracy and bravery in the treatment of its corre-
spondents.
"The Eagle," a Democratic organ, professes no friend-
ship for the Negro race, yet it has generally allowed the
writer to wage battles through its columns by giving abund-
ant space for articles that were considered by the friendly
Republican editors too sweeping for publication. On ac-
count of the "Eagle's" often disparaging editorials on the
Race question, many of my friends have purchased a copy
of the paper only when informed that an article of mine zvas
forthcoming.
To such friends is this little volume especially presented,
that they may enjoy some of the many contributions on sub-
jects nearest their hearts and mine.
I plead for the acceptance of this little volume, not alone
because of my bold defense of my people I became the
object of the spleen of those who possessed the power to rob
me of the means of support, but because its contents are the
outpourings of a heart full of love for a maligned race and
jealous of their wrongs. While, no doubt, other contribu-
tors have been enabled to demand something for their time
and talents, the author of "Eagle Clippings" has been glad
to, so far, be so indulged in the prosecution of his loved
work as to have it accepted gratis by the great "Brooklyn
Daily Eagle" and other periodicals. This should kindle
a sympathetic flame in the hearts of my friends, for I be-
lieve I have many, to compensate me for the labors in
behalf of the race.
JACK THORN E.
THE DEATH OF LAVINA ROBINSON FULTON.
(From The Standard Union.)
Lavinia Robinson Fulton, mother of D. B. Fulton, better
known as "Jack Thorne," and one of the strongest writers
of the race, died at her late residence, 465 Baltic Street, last
Monday evening, from paralysis. The funeral services
will be held to-morrow at 2 P. M. at the Concord Baptist
Church of Christ. I%
Lavinia Robinson was born in Bobeson County, North
Carolina, about sixty-seven years ago. She was the eldest
of fourteen children of Hamlet and Amy Robinson. Sent
away from her parents at a very early age, she grew up as
many slave children, without the affection, love and counsel
of a mother. Through the indulgence of her master she
learned when very young to read the Bible and was con-
verted when about thirteen years of age. She entered the
Baptist Church of which her master was deacon, and was
baptized by the Rev. James McDonald, a famous Scotch
divine, known as the "silver-tongued orator of the Cumber-
land," the Talmage of the early 40's. Although like all
slave women, environed by circumstances in no way con-
ducive to upright living, Lavinia Robinson Fulton lived a
pure, upright and consistent life, always seeking the com-
panionship of those whose lives accorded with her own.
Married to Benjamin Fulton at the age of fourteen, she
bore him ten children, five of whom now live, four in
Brooklyn. One is with the father in North Carolina. To
her children she was never demonstrative, but sought to
prepare them for the real earnest battle of life. She set-
tled in Wilmington in 1867, and saw in the American Mis-
sionary Association, then at work among the freedmen
there, the much desired opportunity to improve herself and
educate her children, and immediately put herself in touch
with these people. In 1875 sne became one of the founders
of the First Congregational Church, of Wilmington, N. C.
Every opportunity for moral, religious and intellectual ad-
vancement her children have enjoyed has come to them
through the self-sacrificing devotion and the sterling Chris-
tian character of this mother. Her nearly ten years' resi-
dence in Brooklyn have been years of unceasing toil, yet
she never let pass an opportunity to speak a word for her
Master whom she has faithfully and unwaveringly followed,
going out when the opportunity presented itself to partici-
pate in the Salvation Army services to which she had be-
come very much attached. Her children never grew too old
to be her constant care and anxiety and the burden of her
prayers.
Brooklyn, N. Y., July 16, 1904.
Mr. Benjamin Fulton,
Middle Sound, North Carolina.
Dear Brother Ben : —
The enclosed clipping is the press announcement of the
death of mother which occurred on the 4th instant. She
was ill but a very short period. Up to about three months
ago, she was apparently in the best of health; in fact, her
health was generally better here than in the South. But
being constantly on the go, she contracted quite a good deal
of cold. Sister Hattie tried to persuade her more than a
year ago to take a rest, but she would not until compelled
to give up. She died as she lived, a devoted mother, an
earnest Christian. When the end came she was at sister's,
and we all were with her but you. She had, since the riots
at Wilmington, expressed an unwillingness to be buried
there, so we buried her here, and the funeral was attended
by many old Wilmington friends. No nobler mother ever
lived; no truer Christian ever died. She desired much to
see you ; will you make it your aim to meet her on the other
side? May we hear from you soon? I would have writ-
ten you sooner, but I have just gotten your address from
Mrs. Powell. Hoping that you all are very well, I am,
Yours affectionately,
DAVID.
502 Fulton Street.
A DOCK LABORER
Experiences of One Man Who Came to the Metropolis in
the Late Eighties, Looking for Honest Employment.
(From The Brooklyn Citizen.)
From the time of my arrival in New York in '87, and
entering the employ of the Pullman Palace Car Co. in '88,
up to Dec, 1905, I had been able to give a pretty accurate
account of my time — nine years in the Palace car service,
four years in a large music house in New York City, two
years at odd jobs, and at the close of the year 1905 I had
about wound up four years in the employ of the Central
Branch of The Young Men's Christian Association of
Brooklyn, feeling that a change of atmosphere would per-
haps conduce toward the strengthening of my faith in the
efficacy of Christian religion which contact with "Scribes"
had somewhat weakened. The uninitiated, perusing the
columns of the great New York dailies with their innumer-
able "Help Wanted" advertisements, would readily conclude
that the seeking of employment in the great Metropolis
need be no irksome task to any one. But the major por-
tion of these want ads. are mere will-o'-the-wisps, put there
apparently to tantalize and to throw into the abyss of des-
pair honest seekers after the tangible. Such announce-
ments as "Wanted — Cooks, waiters, chambermaids, coach-
men, butlers, hall-boys, bellmen, laundresses," etc., etc., are
invariably the fabrications of unscrupulous employment
agents, who spread their nets to catch the unwary, whose
money they greedily pocket and hurry them off to fill posi-
tions which, to their knowledge, are already filled through
other agencies. Experience had taught me that in seeking
work in New York, both of these mediums were to be
eschewed. My first position, which cost me just half of my
fortune, was a place way out in Fordham, where I was en-
gaged to drive a horse and milk the cow. I knew little
about horses and nothing about cows. In less than a week
I had broken the shaft of the man's buggy, was dismissed,
and with my belongings was on my way back to the shrewd
son of Abraham, who had followed me to the door on the
day of my departure from his office, rubbing his clammy
hands and whining: "Eef th' blace dus nod suit you, vhy
cum back an' I gif you a nudder." But when he saw me
approaching the office a second time he met me at the door
and, holding up his hands in feigned horror, swore by the
beard of the prophet that he had fulfilled his contract and
would do no more. If he did not see greenness in my face,
he took the chance at bluffing me out of three dollars, and
succeeded. This well-remembered experience turned me
into other channels in search of work this time. Accepting
the agency of a Health and Accident Insurance Company,
at the end of a month of canvassing I had on my book the
names of a host of sympathetic friends who, although well
provided for in that line, were, on account of their great
love for me, ready to invest in more insurance. One very
dear friend to whom I thought I had convincingly set forth
the advantages and inducements my company offered, and
why a woman of her environments and temperament would
profit by taking out a policy therein, and who had, in turn,
eloquently acquiesced and expressed her desire and de-
termination to subscribe, had at the conclusion of two
weeks, the time appointed for the issuing of the policy, pre-
pared such an eloquent speech in support of a demurrer,
that, after listening in amazement to it, I threw aside my
insurance outfit in disgust, purchased hook and overalls and
sought employment among the dock laborers.
It was in 1892 that the Ward Steamship Company of
New York terminated a series of strikes among its dock
laborers and stevedores, entailing great financial loss, by
substituting Negro labor for Irish and Italian. The Irish-
man is the very embodiment of discontent, the instigator of
8
nearly all the troubles in the labor field, the inaugurator of
political upheavals and race clashings. Ever ready to strike
for higher wages and shorter hours, the Irishman would
burn his own dwelling from over his head if he thought
that thereby he might do injury to an unyielding employer.
The Ward Steamship Company, financially embarassed by
frequent revolutions in its labor department, and at the
mercy of labor unions had yielded step by step until the
longshoreman's pay had advanced from thirty to forty-five
cents an hour. But the demand for fifty cents was the straw
that broke the camel's back. The Italians who, with diffi-
culty supplanted the Irish and went into the holds of the
ships to work for twenty-five cents per hour, were not suffi-
ciently bulky nor experienced to insure independence of the
lusty son of Erin, and the Negro, who, previous to this
time, had only been allowed to step in here and there along
the water front, was called in to take charge of the work of
loading and discharging the great ships of the Ward Steam-
ship Company. The Negro workman, pushing out over
the North and West, is confronted by more serious and
exasperating obstacles than any other human creature.
Securing work in big corporations only as a strike-breaker,
he, in many instances, has only been retained until the white
man chose to return to work. But the Ward Steamship
Company had called to its rescue, men schooled in Yankee
duplicity, who did not "turn to" until this very important
matter was settled. But the scale of wages made by the
Italian strike-breaker was not advanced in favor of the
efficient black stevedore. And the twelve years of unpre-
cedented prosperity, during which the company has had to
double its carrying capacity by adding in its fleet several
large and more commodious ships, an advance in wages
from twenty-five cents an hour so far has never been
offered these benefactors, who freed the company from
the meshes of labor unions, brought order out of chaos and
started them on the road to prosperity. It must not be con-
ceded that because of its rough character, the work of
the stevedore is a calling that does not require intelligence,
cool-headedness and skill ; for without coolness and thor-
ough knowledge on the part of those appointed to direct it,
the work of loading and unloading these great ships would
be attended by far greater loss of life and limb than is now
recorded. It was a cold morning in the month of February
when I joined the anxious crowd of laborers at Pier 15,
East River, Brooklyn side, waiting to be "shaped." To be
shaped is to secure at the timekeeper's window a brass
check with a number engraved upon it, which is written in
his book opposite your name, and passing the foreman who
engages you, you call out this number, which is jotted down
in his book. On quitting work each man calls out his num-
ber to the timekeeper, and returning, reports both to time-
keeper and foreman. "Push in," said a sympathetic fellow,
noticing my embarrassment, "your chance may be as good
as the oldest ; no man has a cinch here."
"Stand in line and take your turn," said another man, as
he noticed me endeavoring to push my truck past the fel-
low in front of me. "The Irishman tries to make a job
last as long as possible, while the Negro sings and runs
himself out of work." My first day's work consisted of
unloading fruit and pig lead; and as I climbed the hill
homeward at the conclusion of the day my limbs almost
refused to support me. The following day, still sore and
stiff from the previous day's toil, I reported again at Pier
15, and by sheer ambition trudged through another day of
the hardest toil of my life. In discharging ships, foremen
may employ as many as twenty men in their gangs, but they
dwindle to sixteen when loading. Failing to get a "shape"
on the third day, I wended my way back home to return in
the evening to try my luck with the night gangs. To my
mind, it requires more than ordinary courage on the part
of a new and inexperienced hand to join a company of men
going into a ship's hold to store freight, aided only by the
light of lanterns. The gang in which I worked began in
the ship's hold to be shifted to the docks, and from thence
off shore to hoist freight from one of the many lighters
which flanked the great vessel. The angry, black waters,
lashed into fury by the fierce cold winds, seemed anxiously
waiting to swallow into its depths the timid wretch who,
stumbling blindly over the many pitfalls, chanced to miss
his footing. This, together with the oaths of the experi-
10
enced and unsympathetic workmen, the ear-piercing calls
of the gangwayman, the deafening roar of machinery so
exasperated and confused me that I was tempted to climb
back upon the dock and scamper off for home. But as the
night grew old and the owl-like hoot of craft in the great
harbor lessened, the lights in the distant towers went out
one by one and the great bridge, no longer disturbed by
moving cars and the tread of restless feet, stood there calm
and tranquil in the glimmering shadows, I became more
reconciled to my surroundings and the task became less irk-
some. Current stories of crime, of midnight assassinations,
of suicides, give New York harbor at dead of night a weird
and fantastic aspect. Yet in spite of all this it is a fasci-
nating sight. I soon discovered that one man's chances
were not, if green, as good as another old and experienced
hand, and justly so. The mastery of stevedore work is as
difficult a task as the mastery of algebra, it seems to me.
It was perfectly natural for the foremen to cull out the men
whom they knew could do creditable work. My first em-
ployer was Capt. John Simonds (colored), who was doubt-
less moved more by my willingness than my value as a
workman, and though I got in now and then with Powell,
with Rainey and with Butler, it seemed less difficult to shape
with Simonds. For quite a month or more I beat about the
decks, following the gangs from pier to pier and from sugar
house to sugar house with varying luck. One evening at
Erie Basin, I joined the gang of a foreman whom they
called "Buster Brown." "Buster Brown" was a wild, swear-
ing Negro of the Guinea type, with protruding forehead,
staring eyes and heavy lips that could utter oaths and filthy
epithets that would put a pirate to blush. Brown was the
type of Negro indespensable to the overseer of the slave
plantation, who wished to wring out the very last drop of
blood from his chattels; who often as "drivers" strung up
and lashed their own mothers. It is a type of native used by
the British now plundering South Africa, to get the most
out of the workers in the mines. This fellow kept the air
lurid with oaths and vulgarity, buldozing the men, threat-
ening them with his fist and with his gun, and in turn cring-
ing like a cur when addressed by the white supervisor. I
II
looked at this Negro both in pity and disgust and wondered
what kind of a home it was over which he presided.
Although the night was cold and men were constantly
dropping out to warm up at a near-by saloon, I stuck to my
post lest the impetuosity of this foreman tempt me to lay
his thick head upon the dock and thereby lose a night's
work. Fortunately, "Buster Brown" is not the prevailing
type of stevedore; I found a sufficient number of sober, in-
dustrious and goodly disposed men engaged in work there
to make it quite a pleasant place to be. There are many
incidents during my employ there on the docks that I re-
call with pleasure, for I believe the Negro works with a
lighter heart, and infuses more music and fun into labor
than any other human being. Most of these men are from
Virginia and the Carolinas, where music and laughter drive
away the irksomeness of toil. No group of men was with-
out its jester, who was often a Godsend to the discouraged
and melancholy. I recall with a great deal of mirth the
side-splitting jokes gotten off by "Squire Rigger" on
"Sheep" and "Sheep's" witty retorts and sarcastic flings at
"Rabbit," or Philip Hooper's droll, yet mirth-provoking
tales of his adventures. Phil had traveled extensively and
worked at nearly every imaginable calling in the labor
world, and his retentive memory was never taxed for some
interesting, instructive and yet amusing story.
12
THE GREAT WHITE WAY.
To Mr. Jno. E. Robinson, Ed. of The "Mirror."
To some of us who had lived South where most city
streets are wide sandy deserts, the first invasion of Broad-
way, New York, was not without a feeling of disappoint-
ment; for this lovely old thoroughfare which, beginning
at Battery Park, winds like a river northward through
Manhattan Island is anything but "broad." Often as I
stood upon the curbstone of this overcrowded street, have I
imagined that I could hear its painful cry of protest as it
groaned under the weight of traffic, and wishing that the
clumsy vehicles of commerce might be driven into some
other avenue, so that the stranger, proud of its fame might
with less annoyance and apprehension feast his eyes upon
the historic landmarks that border it on either side. When
I first behold Broadway, Jake Sharp's bribery had deprived
it somewhi t of its attractiveness ; for the horse-car had just
invaded it, adding to the congestion and consequent discom-
fort of pedestrians, and changing it from the aristocratic
highway of hansom cabs of former times.
In spite of the protest of the citizens of the great
metropolis, "cabby," with his smart livery, his soft, suave
and polite "want-a-cab ?" was to be forever hushed by the
ear-piercing jingle of the car bells and the coarse yells of
the driver. But this change did not rob the old thorough-
fare of its interest and power to fascinate and charm, for
the people soon forgot this "wanton disregard for our
wishes" and became reconciled to the new order of things.
And how the old street has grown in beauty and grandeur
within the last twenty years ! Now it's "The Great White
Way" of modern structures of marble and granite. Have
you ever walked the streets of New York without a home?
A stroll along Broadway drives away melancholy and
13
makes the homeless and despised forgetful of his misery;
for there is an inexplicable feeling of warmth in the glow
of its myriads of electric lights, and the winter snow that
falls on Broadway seems to hit the cheeks with apologetic
tenderness.
The homeless outcast from beneath the chilly glare of
the lights of Fifth Avenue, where he is jostled aside by the
footmen and run down by the luxuriant coaches of haughty
millionaires is often saved from a suicide's grave by the
warmth and cheer dispensed by the lights of Broadway.
Broadway, where sympathies are blended and everybody is
kin; where the recluse crawls out of his shell; where the
miser loosens his purse strings and for the time being is a
jolly good fellow. Broadway is the lane of comedy, comedy
that flows in such immense volume that tragedy the most re-
volting, can only cause a momentary ebb. It is said by some
people that in handsomely gowned and pretty colored Amer-
ican girls, Chicago outclasses New York. But I wonder if
any of these alleged authorities ever stood for an hour or
more on upper Broadway at the junction of Sixth Avenue
and Thirty-third Street, or lined up with the "chappies" in
front of St. Mark's at the close of an afternoon Sunday
lyceum service to watch the parade of beauty. I am entitled
to a vote on this question. I have strolled the fashionable
thoroughfares of nearly all the large American cities. But
for wealth of beauty, and of raiment, for the bounti fulness
of pleasure and revelry of mirth and good cheer, give me
dear old Broadway, fraught with sweet, bitter memories.
14
DR. JACOBS AND HIS CHOIR
To the Editor of "The Standard Union'
In the days of slavery few plantations in the South were
without their Negro spiritual advisers, men devout, chosen
from among their fellow bondsmen, who were permitted to
go freely from plantation to plantation to pray and exhort
among their brethren. In many communities in North
Carolina master and slave worshipped in the same church,
the whites monopolizing the mornings and evenings of the
First Day, while in the afternoons the Negro from the same
pulpit preached to his own people. Very often during these
services the master sat in the audience an attentive and
reverent worshiper; for there was a pathos in the mourn-
ful music of the slave, an emotion that permeated his preach-
ing and his prayers that strangely fascinated the dominant
race in those days. It must have been a strange and won-
derful sight to the white man to witness the fervency with
which the slave worshiped the God who had so permitted it
that he owned not himself ; to see shackel hands raised in
exaltation, and tears of joy unspeakable streaming down
cheeks furrowed and scarred by hardship. The intense en-
joyment of these brief intervals of freedom to worship God
on the part of his chattels doubtless had the effect of easing
the conscience of the oppressor and justified the institution.
The master thoroughly enjoyed the worship of the slave,
especially his singing. He often lingered about the church
door to catch the last strains of the plaintive melody that
gushed from bleeding hearts. The song of the captive
mourning for his lover, ruthlessly sold away to some dis-
tant land, was prompted by far different emotions than the
shouts from "corn shuckings," but the effect was the same
upon the ear of the calloused oppressor whose descendants
15
now regard the slave regime as a benefaction. This fixed
time for the worship of the slave in North Carolina did not
debar him from a place in galleries when his master wor-
shiped. The eloquence that floated out from the lips of
the cultured and refined ministry and the music of trained
voices in the choir loft were listened to with great profit
by the captive, destined some day not only to own himself
but his church and his pew, for at the close of the war the
number of negroes in the South who knew more than the
mere rudiments of music was surprising. And as there was
a strong desire on the part of the race to discard plantation
melodies, reminders of cruel bondage, and learn classical
music, he who could teach vocal music had an inviting field
in which to work. The town of New Berne, N. C, for
many years after the war was noted for the great love for
music among its colored people, the major portion of the
Sunday service in every church and schoolhouse being de-
voted to the teaching of vocal music. And now there are
but few colored people hailing from that section of the old
North State that cannot both read and sing music.
But as in most colored churches, collections are lifted to
the accompaniment of vocal music to the overtaxing of
choirs, the plantation song has not entirely lost its popularity,
and the composer of rude religious ballads is still to be
reckoned among the indispensible adjuncts in the spreading
of the Gospel. In some districts among the African Metho-
dist people the minister who can sing well, as well as
preach well, has a more satisfactory financial report to pre-
sent at the annual conference than he who has but the one
talent. The most popular and successful composer of sacred
ballads I recall was one, the Rev. Mr. Hunter, of the Zion
Methodist connection, whose "Go Down, Moses," "Oh,
Daniel," etc., electrified the worshipers of old "Christian
Chapel," in Wilmington, North Carolina, so many years ago.
When Dr. Hunter came to town and stood in the pulpit of
the old chapel, the choir was for the time being forgotten by
the audience in their eagerness to catch the melody and fol-
low in the strain of new song sure to issue from the mouth
of this great singer. But in our more modern pulpits,
especially in the North, taste for the classic and refined in
16
music is on the ascendancy. And we can safely consider
Dr. F. M. Jacobs, of the Zion Methodist Church, in Bridge
Street, as among the foremost exponents of this gratifying
regime. Although Dr. Jacobs is not without a love for the
old slave melodies, which he can sing with the zest of the
most ardent Methodist, he is more in love with the classic
and refined, and is as much at home in the rendition of
'Inflammatus," by Rossini, as the simplest Negro melody.
Paul Fulton, the new choirmaster of the Zion Memorial
Church choir, born in Cumberland County, N. C, and edu-
cated in the public schools of Wilmington, received his
musical training under Mrs. Janet Gay Dodge, one of the
most proficient, thorough and painstaking teachers of the
art that ever went South from New England. For a num-
ber of years Mr. Fulton trained and was at the head of one
of the best organizations of male voices in the State of
North Carolina. But since he has lived North he has taken
up but little time with the music world. The disinclination
of Negro churches to pay singers gives to choristers an
abundant amount of care and worry in the training of
volunteers who are mostly amateurs. This state of things
has worked to the detriment of choristers who are often
over taxed and worn out leading choruses, prompted in
many instances by the ambition to be the stars. Mr. Ful-
ton's method is to train each individual singer to be self
dependent, and thereby have a choir that will not be com-
pelled to lean upon its chorister. Those who shall visit Zion
Memorial Church during the coming season will have the
pleasure of enjoying some novel and entertaining musical
programmes.
17
THE ADDRESS OF JOHN TEMPLE GRAVES
Of Atlanta, Georgia, as Published in the Brooklyn Daily
Eagle.
Chicago, September 3d.
The University of Chicago held its forty-eighth con-
vention and the principal speaker from abroad was John
Temple Graves, of Atlanta. He spoke on "The Problem
of the Races," and his long address will probably cause a
furor throughout the country. Mr. Graves made a great
reputation for oratory at Chautauqua at the lynching con-
ference, but his address to-day was of a different nature.
He gave a complete exposition of the race problem as the
South sees it; its causes, effect, and his theory of its solu-
tion. Mr. Graves' main points were that the only solution
possible is the complete separation of the races ; that the
Negroes ought to have free transportation to the Philip-
pines; that the Islands should be turned over to them for
their own absolute control as a state ; that no whites should
vote there and no negroes should vote here ; that the South
could get along without them, because the last census shows
the Negroes have not had a majority share in the raising of
crops recently.
Mr. Graves said in part : "Fortunate am I, and happy in
that I bring the convictions of this hour to a platform so
free and to an atmosphere so impartial. Questions of ab-
stract policy — problems of humanity — bearing a hint of
section or a complication of party are not for the ears of
faction or for the passing of politics. Upon the fierce and
heated bosom of established prejudice the cold stream of
reason falls too frequently to steam and hissing, and men
who have convictions that are rather definite than popular
18
may thank God for the calmer air of universities and for
the clear and unbiased minds of students seeking truth."
Then Mr. Graves went on to state his problem — the condi-
tions in the last forty years that brought the race matter to
the fore. The freeing of the slaves and making them the
equal of their former masters made two opposite, unequal,
and antagonistic races stand side by side. He said the
equation was this: "There they are — master and slave —
civilized and half-civilized, strong and weak, conquoring
and servile, twentieth century and twelfth century — thirteen
hundred years apart — set by a strange and incomprehensible
edict of statesmanship or of passion set by the Constitution
and the law, the weakest race on earth and the strongest
race on earth, side by side, on equal terms to bear an equal
part in the conduct and responsibility of the greatest gov-
ernment the world ever saw. It was an experiment without
a precedent in history and without a promise in the annals
of man. The experiment has had thirty-eight years of trial,
backed by the power of the Federal Government and by the
sympathy of the world. It has failed. From the beginning
to the hour that holds us, it has failed.
"In a land of light and liberty, in an age of enlightenment
and law, the women of the South are prisoners to danger
and to fear. While your women may walk from suburb
to suburb and from township to township without an escort
and without alarm, there is not a woman of the South —
wife or daughter — who would be permitted, or who would
dare, to walk at twilight unguarded through the residence
streets of a populous town or to ride the outside highways
at midday."
A REPLY TO THE HON. JOHN TEMPLE GRAVES
[CHICAGO SPEECH]
To the Editor of "The Brooklyn Eagle" :
I was quite a small boy when, in 1874, three men entered
the school of which I was a pupil and announced the death
of Charles Sumner, a name which but few of us had ever
heard. "Charles Sumner is dead!" was the first sentence
uttered by the first speaker, who went on to tell us how
19
deeply the Nation was affected by the death of this good
man. "Who was Charles Sumner, and what of him?" was
the query that went from pupil to pupil, for the stranger in
his eulogy did not satisfactorily enlighten us on that point.
The fact that we had not heard of him then makes his
name dearer to me now as I recall that eventful incident,
for Charles Sumner shall be numbered with the elect and
precious who shall inquire of the King in that day: "Lord,
when saw we thee a hungered and fed thee? or thirsty and
gave thee drink? When saw we thee a stranger and took
thee in? or naked and clothed thee?" And the King shall
answer and say unto them, " 'Verily, verily, I say unto you,
in as much as ye have done it unto one of the least of these
my brethren, ye have done it unto me.' " This man had
given his best days, given his best energies contending for
the rights of a race too ignorant and obscure to even realize
that such efforts were being put forth in their behalf, or
that such a man as Charles Sumner existed. It is upon
such characters that a strong nation rests, for it takes
such to build a strong nation and uphold it; men who did
right because it was right ; men who were willing to do and
dare for the oppressed from whom there could come no
earthly reward. Such characters grow in magnitude as
the years recede, and men come to understand the truths
they championed. Many of those who listened to the speech
delivered by John Temple Graves at the Chicago University
a few days ago, have doubtless visited Lincoln Park in that
city, to gaze upon the rugged features of that great leader
of men whose bronze statue stands there looking sadly
down upon the throngs that pass it. Their minds must
move back to his early career in Illinois, and his many com-
bats with Stephen A. Douglass, Douglass the invincible,
who could lie like truth, to whom Lincoln was no match as
an orator. Yet the name of Lincoln, who believed in right-
eousness and simple truth, will live in the hearts of the
American people when that of Douglass is forgotten. Such
men as Lincoln never boasted of a "white man's country;"
but the burden of their prayers was that "nation of the
people, for the people and by the people might not perish
from the land." When the nations of the old world think
20
of the greatness and grand achievements of this Republic,
such characters as Lincoln, Phillips, Sumner, Whittier,
Beecher, Garrison stand out as the bulwarks upon which it
rests, and not of those who have contributed the least, and
yet are doing the most boasting. What did the people of
Chicago assemble for to hear, a rational being, a man
clothed in his right mind ? Or was it not rather to listen to
a man who had lain down in Georgia and dreamed a dream,
and before fully awakened from the stupor of a long sleep,
stalked forth to relate it? Suppose there was a possi-
bility of carrying Mr. Graves' colonizing scheme into execu-
tion, how long would it be before there would be a John
Temple Graves in the Philippines, whining for the separa-
tion of races and saying, "This is a white man's country."
The white man is there now, grabbing land, speculating,
stirring up race hatred and mongrelizing an already mon-
grel people. Is not Governor Taft unpopular over there
because he desired to give the Filipino a say-so in the gov-
ernment of his own country? Where is there a domain
from the dense interior of darkest Africa to the Land of the
Midnight Sun that Mr. Graves' race is not found, subju-
gating, killing and tyranizing? The Negro cannot walk
on the sidewalks in the Transvaal. That's a white man's
country, too. That "all conquoring race" Mr. Graves boasts
of is everywhere, seeking to turn the world into a trust and
kick all the other races off of it. "Civilizing and Christian-
izing," you say? It is no satisfaction to me to behold in the
jungles of Patigonia the Christian(?) white man's cottage
where the hut of the savage once stood when I reflect upon
the fact that to put that cottage there it cost the lives of
perhaps a thousand human beings, fashioned by the hand of
God to live on this earth and enjoy unmolested a persuit
of happiness. What manner of people are those to whom
the sweetest music is the groans and wails of the suffering,
and to whose feet the softest cushion is the neck of the
down-trodden? Where shall rest be found? The view of
the distinguished gentleman from Georgia is that it's to be
found neither in Heaven nor Hell for any race but the
white race. His conception of such things is so narrow and
contracted that his people must have the right of way be-
21
cause God did not call the worlds into existence without
consulting them, neither can God run the universe without
them. In Paradise the white man is to occupy all the front
seats by the Jasper Sea, and the darker races must stand
behind and fan him. And if he should be so unfortunate
as to go to Hell he will seek a nigger or a Chinaman to
hold between him and the fire. It's passing strange that
Mr. Graves allowed the Almighty to create all these weaker
races for his people to look after and keep in their places.
It would have saved the white man from the commission of
many a black sin had God created the whole world solely
for him to bustle in.
"In a land of light and liberty the women of the South
are prisoners to fear," etc. Now this assertion, when read,
will be more startling to the women of Atlanta than to
Mr. Graves' Chicago audience. The white woman may
walk from "suburb to suburb" with far more safety in
Atlanta than in Chicago. To say that the Southern white
woman is unsafe because of the presence of the Negro is a
damaging misstatement. The Southern lady of wealth is
continually surrounded by her trusted colored servants,
male and female, and her environments have always been
such as to render her as fearless of the Negro as a pet cat.
Until they were past the age of twenty, the only escort to
teas and to parties and such like the daughters of one of
the leading merchants of my native town had was their
Negro butler. No one turned to gaze after the wife of
another prominent citizen of that town who thought noth-
ing of going through the streets leaning upon the arm of
her Negro butler. Mr. Graves, in order to strengthen his
colonization theory, would malign the women of his race.
Brooklyn, Sept. 19th, 1903.
22
MEMORIAL DAY IN THE SOUTH
To the Editor of "The Brooklyn Eagle":
As Decoration Day draws nigh, recollections of the strug-
gle of 1861, which so tried the two sections of our coun-
try, become more vivid, and the many years that have
passed since then seem less distant. The veteran in his
faded coat of blue, his rugged visage and empty sleeve;
the militiaman in brilliant uniform; citizens in holiday
attire, booming cannon and martial music, give to that par-
ticular day a significance which apparently no other day
possesses. While in the North we celebrate in gala attire
and bands and drum corps blare out patriotic airs, in the
South the observance is in striking contrast ; all is funereal,
solemn and sedate. With arms reversed, the veteran, with
slow and measured tread follows behind muffled drums and
bands play dirges, while choirs sing most solemn and touch-
ing music. While the 30th of May is universally observed
for the decoration of the graves of Union dead, the Daugh-
ters of the Confederacy and other such organizations in the
South, although such a day is observed in every Southern
State, do not move in concert. In the far Southern States,
where spring puts on her richest attire in early April, Con-
federate graves are decorated in that month, while in States
further North, a day in May is observed. In North Caro-
lina it is the 10th of May; in Virginia, it's the 30th. This
is an observance of the most intense interest to lovers of
the "Lost Cause." An air of profound sadness and thought-
fulness pervades the very atmosphere, and the gray veteran
again salutes the "Stars and Bars" which hang in profusion
about the speakers' stand and wave above the Confederate
dead. Father Ryan's famous poem, "The Conquored Ban-
ner," is recited with a pathos that is touching. Old wounds
bleed a-fresh as impassioned orators tell of the causes that
led up to the struggle; the justness of the Southern side and
the bravery of the Southern soldier. Pickett's gallant
charge at Gettysburg is rehearsed with fervor; what might
have been gained to the South on that gory field had Lee
23
listened to the advice of Longstreet is also regretfully told,
together with the story of the foolhardiness of Sidney
Johnston at Shiloh, which lost the West to the Confederacy.
But on the 30th of May, when Union soldiers' graves are
decorated, a different program is rendered. There, over
those grass-covered mounds, other orators — nowadays
mostly colored men — tell of the victories of the "Silent
Man" at Donaldson, at Shiloh, at Vicksburg, at Chat-
tanooga, at Petersburg and Richmond, and of of Sherman's
famous March to the Sea. The decoration of these graves
is, and has ever been, done almost solely by Afro-American
women. And when we consider the fact that nearly all of
the men who fell in that awful struggle sleep South of
Mason's and Dixon's line, we can appreciate the importance
of the part the Afro- American woman plays in this work
of love. At Richmond, Culpepper, Wilmington, Salisbury,
Salisbury, S. C, Nashville, Chattanooga, Memphis and
other places beneath acres upon acres of grass-covered
mounds.
"Asleep are the ranks of the dead" — Union dead. The
Government provides only for the placing of a small Amer-
ican flag on that day upon each headstone, no more. But
it is the loving hand of black woman and child that places
the rose, the jasmine, the lilac and forget-me-not there, with
wreathes of cedar and of pine ; so that wafted upon the
breeze which comes upward from that hallowed ground is
the breath of sweet flowers. What shall be done for this
obscure Schunamite who, for so many years, has faithfully
performed this work of love? "Shall we mention her to
the King? or shall we ship her to the Philippines? The
Grand Army veteran will doubtless say "No," when he
looks backward and thinks of Andersonville, Libbey, Flor-
ence and Danville, and of the fate that might have been his
had it not been for the devotion of some colored woman or
boy who hid him in kitchen loft or barn or hay stack, from
the heartless rebel, and under cover of darkness, piloted him
safely into Union lines.
"Oh Lord of hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget, lest we forget."
To the Afro-American woman of the South on that day
24
will come vivid recollections of the inexplicable gloom that
pervaded the land everywhere when John Brown went to
the scaffold, or the excitement attending the bombardment
of Fort Sumpter, the hastening northward of the soldier
in gray, of the constant scudding off of husband, brother or
father to break through rebel lines to fight on "the Lord's
side." She will hear again the sad wail of the massacred at
Fort Pillow, see those black forms dashing toward the
parapets of Fort Wagner and hear again the thunderings
of the awful crater at Petersburg. With this must come
the consoling thought that she has done what she could.
For among those sleeping heroes her husband, her brother,
her father is lying, having given up their lives that "a
nation of the people, for the people, and by the people,
might not perish from the land."
HANNAH ELIAS
To the Editor of "The Brooklyn Eagle" :
It is very unfortunate that such a valuable citizen as
Andrew H. Green should be the target for a crazed Negro's
revolver, while the real sinner escaped to bring him into
nauseating prominence at this late date. How soothing it
would have been to Mr. Green's friends, whose confidence
in his integrity, no doubt, was somewhat shaken by the man-
ner of his taking off, had this man stood over his coffin and
told what he tells now. While I am not in sympathy with
Mrs. Elias' manner of living, I believe that others will
agree with me that for farsightedness, sagacity and busi-
ness tact, Hannah Elias is a twentieth century wonder.
Nine-tenths of those who are pounding her would, no
doubt, like to be as fortunate. Many attractive women are
living in luxury at the expense of such old sinners as Piatt.
His bid for sympathy on the ground that he did not know
that the woman was a Negress, is rendered ridiculous by
25
his own statement concerning the visit of his friends from
the West who, after being shown the white joints of the
Tenderloin, were not satisfied until they had "done the coon
joints." A certain class of men are not satisfied in visit-
ing any town North, South, East or West, unless they have
paid their respects to the "coon joints." In such a resort,
Mr. Piatt met Mrs. Elias. He confesses that to his sor-
row he lost sight of her, and found her again through an
advertisement of massage treatment for rheumatism, by
which treatment he was cured. Those of the medical pro-
fession will bear me out in the assertion that physicians
who command the largest fees are specialists. Mr. Piatt,
who had rheumatism — a very unpleasant, yet aggrivating
malady — had doubtless before meeting Mrs. Elias, spent
large sums of money to effect a cure and failed. Mrs.
Elias cured him ! Such a tormenting disease cured ! Should
it be wondered at that a rich old man whose life had been
thus prolonged, paid handsomely for it, and that he re-
turned frequently for treatment lest the malady return? Is
not such a man an ingrate who would seek to beat a poor
woman out of the paltry sum of $685,000, which she had
earned by performing such a miraculous cure? Was the
old gentleman in his right mind when he paid these large
fees and gave such handsome presents ? Yes. Yes. Then,
has he been robbed ? No ! Mr. Piatt is as much against
social equality as Mr. Thomas Nelson Page, and is doubt-
less as opposed to his daughter sitting in close proximity to
a Negro woman in a public conveyance. But I don't think
he agrees with the Honorable John Temple Graves, that the
races should be separated. Suppose we prove that this
woman got her wealth dishonestly; is this an excuse for a
howling mob about her door ? There are men living in that
community worth individually from eighty to a hundred
millions, and men possessing such wealth have dishonestly
gotten other people's money. Is there anybody up there
seeking to serve papers on them ? Are there howling mobs
standing night and day about their premises? For Chris-
tian shame! Now Mrs. Elias, who is a wealthy taxpayer,
is entitled to police protection, and should have it.
Brooklyn, June 7th, 1904.
26
WORK OF MISSIONARIES
To the Editor of "The Brooklyn Eagle" :
I have had the pleasure of reading three installments of
Br. Hamlin Abbott's contributions to the Outlook on the
Negro problem. Mr. Abbott is, indeed, a logical, instructive
and entertaining writer, original in many respects in his way
of putting things, and I believe he is earnestly trying to de-
vise some means of settling a perplexing question. But he
who reads between the lines may see that Mr. Abbott does
not possess sufficient virtue to lift him out of the beaten path
and contemplate his fellow citizen from human view point,
rather than as a problem that a white man must settle. The
disposition to kick the under dog is as old as the human
race. I often think of Charles Dickens' story of that
wretched boy, Oliver Twist, chased by a wild mob through
the streets of London, headed by the real thief, to be
"stopped at last," struck down by a coward and dragged
off to prison with no one near to pity or protest. I see a
lone woman, pursued by a thousand men for over a hun-
dred miles through the swamps and marshes of Mississippi,
that they might have the pleasure of seeing her suffer the
most shocking death. While in New York, men, women
and children to the number of ten thousand seek to tear, as
it were, to pieces another, because she had committed the
crime of living in luxury. This is the problem, woefully
perplexing. I trust that Mr. Abbott may see the wisdom of
dropping the threadbare Negro question and give to his
readers a few contributions on the more intensely interest-
ing subject, the poor white, the indented slave, the ticket
of leave man, over whom the tide of progress has rolled
for centuries without making but little impression ; the
creature that allowed the Negro to break off his shackles
and outstrip him in the moral and intellectual and financial
race, and actuated by envy, keeps the South in turmoil. Mr.
Abbott will find this an almost exhaustless subject. In the
dismal fastness of the Gulf States, in the mountainous
regions of western North Carolina, east Tennessee, the Vir-
ginias and Kentucky can be found material for the turn-
ing out of immense volumes of matter as thrilling and
27
interesting as the adventures of "Dare Devil Dick." For
there, daily, dramas in real life are enacted that need no
stage settings to add to their effectiveness upon the stranger
and the unitiated. There, ambushed assassinations are of
daily occurrence and vengeance is the law of the land. I
would advise Mr. Abbott to visit these sections and write
something really interesting. But I would say here that he
who would assay to chronicle the doings of these people
from the premises is likely to be called from labor to re-
freshment at any moment. What a ripe field for mission-
ary work? But the missionary will find the work of con-
verting this people more difficult than changing the wildest
Patagonian, because they are all Bible-reading heathen —
people who can repeat chapter after chapter, who know by
heart the Ten Commandments and the Beatitudes and
attend religious services regularly. Yet out of this great
Book, so full of beautiful precepts, they have extracted this
one creed — "An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth."
There the preacher and the deacon are as quick on the trig-
ger as the meanest moonshiner; there a quarrel over a
horse swap or a pig has resulted in feuds that have never
ceased until an entire generation has been wiped out. Mr.
Abbott is letting pass an opportunity that an angel might
covet.
Brooklyn, June 25th, 1904.
SOME COMPARISONS
To the Editor of "The Brooklyn Eagle" :
When Rome was mistress of the world, and her bar-
barian captives were butchered to make holidays, in the
vast ampitheatres where these brutal exhibitions took place,
women composed a large percentage of the audiences that
assembled there to gloat over the sight of human blood.
Women were often butchered there, and little babes oft
with prayers upon their lips ruthlessly torn to pieces. But
we can safely say that in these feasts of blood, women were
not executioners, although they were unmoved by the cruel
28
taking off of their own sex. We can therefore rest assured
that what took place in a small town in the State of Mis-
sissippi a few days ago would have made pagan Rome look
aghast and called forth a cry of indignation that would
shaken the very temple of the Caesars. In that Mississippi
community, before an assemblage of ten thousand people, a
child of tender age was made to tie a rope about a man's
neck and lead him to his self-appointed executioners, who
terrorized the State by their wanton disregard for law and
order. The killing of that wretch in this manner was, per-
haps, the only way to pacify that perturbed community, but
the memory of that awful scene must ever haunt that child,
at least until its little heart and conscience have become cal-
loused. There is no question but that these people were
wrought up to the highest pitch over the awfulness of the
alleged crime ; so was King David of Israel over the story
told by the prophet Nathan of the rich man who had cruelly
taken the poor man's lamb and dressed it for his own
guests. "And David's anger was greatly kindled against
the man : and he said unto Nathan as the Lord liveth the
man that has done this thing shall surely die. And he shall
restore the lamb fourfold because he did this thing and
because he had no pity. And Nathan said unto David,
Thou art the man !" For the King had killed Uriah the
Hitite and had taken his wife. Who are these men shout-
ing for virtue and purity? No Negro woman of the South,
no Negro child of tender age has as yet been enabled to
successfully indict a man of the dominant race who seeks
by law and custom to hedge in one woman and destroy an-
other. Why can't these champions consider the various
definitions of the term "assault"? The Negro possesses the
same propensities of any other creature of the human race,
and in the South his environments are such that he can-
not with impunity defend his own wife, mother or sweet-
heart from insult and violence. Now imagine this crowd,
intimidated being, running amuck, terrozing communities
and making women and children unsafe. These two ex-
tremely different traits of character do not exist in a man
situated as the Southern Negro. A man is likely to take
such liberties where there is most familiarity; where social
29
laws are not so rigidly adhered to, and the man who vio-
lates the person of a woman in a community where mere
suspicion is death, where to be within close proximity to
where a crime of any sort is committed or attempted is
death, is irresponsible; and in humane Northern communi-
ties would be a subject for expert physicians.
NOT GOOD SOCIETY
To the Editor of "The Brooklyn Eagle" :
The recently published interview published in a Manhat-
tan newspaper between an Atlanta correspondent and three
returning Negroes to that city from a mob-infested section
of Illinois, may not be an unlikely story. It should not be
said that the Negro must return South for the very treat-
ment he leaves it to obtain elsewhere. Yet oddily enough,
this has been asserted by three men who had tried the North
and West. The Southern people should not, however, feel
elated over such intelligence, for in return for oceans of
stolen sweat, the South should accord the black man better
treatment than he even might expect in the North and
West. There is no place where a people expect to enjoy
every right of citizenship more than in the home they have
helped to build and maintain. The South is in the main
responsible for the indignities heaped upon the dusky citizen
elsewhere, for in return for 250 years of unrequited toil,
he has been sent forth with a bad name to be shunned and
persecuted by the too credulous Northerner, whose preju-
dice is kept alive by the far-fetched press reports that pre-
cede him. When the Negro has learned the value of a
good name, he will then be enabled to appreciate to what
extent the Southerner has damned him. "Who steals my
purse steals trash." The Negro who regards people who
continually malign him as best friends is ignorant of the
value of a good name. Negroes differ as materially as do
other peoples. We have (as well as the fawning sycophant,
satisfied with any form of existence) the Fred Douglas, the
Nat Turner, the William Still, to whom freedom with a
30
crust is preferable to wealth in slavery. Such men are to-
day pushing out over the sections of country where most
freedom can be obtained, and where the most justice and
equity abounds in courts of law, there is most freedom.
The arm raised in its own defense is nerved in proportion
to the confidence of the individual in the justness and im-
partiality with which he and his antagonist are to be dealt
with in a court of law, Those returning fugitives to
Atlanta found this contrast in the North. But if they came
North looking for and expecting "social equality" they de-
served to be disappointed for their good. That class of
whites with which the Negro comes socially in contact in
the North and West does him not one particle of good
morally, socially, interlectually nor spiritually. The black
mother need not boast that her children play with white
ones, and that she is the only colored resident in a com-
munity. The offspring of the beer besotted parents with
whom negro children are thrown in Northern communi-
ties no more advance and elevate than the company of
wolves, and the mother who thinks that association with
such gamins is an advance in the social scale is ignorant and
wanting in race pride. The white child whose association
would uplift, is as far removed from this class of whites as
is the Negro himself. The colored man who comes North
feeling that the opportunity to touch glasses at bar-room
counters with this class of white men, and to intermarry
with women of like calibre, to the disparagement of his
own, is a step higher in the social scale, misses the bull's
eye by a wide margin.
Brooklyn, August 8th, 1903.
3i
COMMENTS ON A REVIEW OF THE "CLANS-
MAN" BY THE EAGLE
To the Editor of "The Brooklyn Eagle" :
Fictionists and writers of weird tales of carpet-bag rule
in the South are determined that the American people shall
not forget that regime and the part the Negro played in it.
The blunder (?) made by giving the colored man the ballot
is to be the Nation's undying worm and unquenched fire.
The Eagle's review of Thomas Dixon's new novel, "The
Clansman," shows that it is a stronger appeal to race hate
and rancor than "The Leopard's Spots," by the same author.
What of the Negro and the reconstruction period? Why
should much ado be made over his part in that regime?
Honest students of history know perfectly well that under
the then existing circumstances there was no other course
to pursue than to give the Negro the franchise ; it was his
certificate of manhood, his only safeguard against imme-
diate re-enslavement. Every student of history knows also
that the reconstruction period was, the natural and inevitable
result of war like the War of the Rebellion. Why not go
further back and rake those over whose bickerings brought
the war on? The Filipino is not charged with rebellion
against this country, yet there is a reconstruction period
going on in the Philippine Islands. Some day a Filipino
Thomas Dixon, Thomas Nelson Page or John Temple
Graves will write a story of that period frought with weird
and fantastic tales of murder, intimidation, usurpation, try-
anny, subjugation, land-grabbing, stealing and mongreliz-
ing. But I guess the book will not be as fascinating to
American readers as "The Clansman." Although Mr.
Dixon's story begins at Washington, the principal scene of
action is South Carolina, and the writer could not have
chosen a more fitting scene for a drama of this kind. South
Carolina is responsible for the reconstruction period, for
that State led off in the rebellion which necessitated such a
regime. On the day that the Federal garrison evacuated
32
Fort Sumpter, a little man in a speech to the people of
Charleston, said, "This little State has humbled the entire
Nation to-day," and pointing to the flag which floated over
his head, he continued, "and this little flag now flaunting
the breeze over us will in three months' time float over the
Capitol at Washington!" Vain boast! If that man could
have foreseen what took place during the four years fol-
lowing this incident, he would doubtless have been willing to
crawl to Washington to apologize to an insulted Nation.
In less than three years half starved and wornout rebel sol-
diers were cursing South Carolina for having started the
disastrous and foolhardy fight. But we Northern sympa-
thisers are inclined to say the South was actuated by the
honest convictions that it was right. Why not concede the
same to the reconstructionist? Was he not nearer right
than the man-stealer?
Brooklyn, January 30th, 1905.
MR. THOMAS DIXON, JR., THE ALIENIST
\_The Voice of the Negro, Atlanta, Ga.]
The most interesting and fascinating report of murder
trials nowadays is that of the alienist who is generally the
prosecuting attorney's most valuable adjunct when circum-
stantial evidence is the main channel by which conviction
is hoped to be secured. While the average newspaper re-
porter follows closely the proceedings of a trial, notes the
evidence of the witnesses, the quarrels of lawyers in their
efforts to convict or acquit, the alienist sits by and attempts
to open up to the world's gaze the soul of the accused.
Every lineament of the features comes under the scrutiniz-
ing gaze of the alienist; the eyes, the forehead, the mouth,
the chin, the ears, the hands — all of these members are
closely studied by this wonderful reader of character and
generally arrayed on the side of conviction. For the alien-
ist will show that these carefully studied lineaments evi-
dence weakness — the murder mania, that the crime for
which the prisoner stands charged was inevitable. But
what a saving it would be to the State and to society if such
33
devils could be singled out and incarcerated before they do
incalculable harm. Suppose the expert could discover the
weakness of a building, warn his fellows of their danger
and thereby prevent the awful calamities that so often take
place in our large cities. Such service is done now and then,
but successfully determining a person's character by study-
ing the features is not an achievement to be relied upon.
Yet, in the great commercial world, the habit of singling
out men for certain callings by appearance only has driven
many an honest fellow to despair. Thousands of honest
men and women are daily turned from places where employ-
ment is offered because they cannot pass under the scrutin-
izing gaze of some expert who presumes to guage their fit-
ness by their personal appearance. There are many honest
men with but one suit of clothes which will in time become
shabby, look shiny in spite of care ; there are sober men and
honest men with nothing with which to appear as though
they were honest "sober and reliable," who, "turned down,"
go back to their suffering families with no look of hope,
or to end their misery by suicide. Who can successfully
read character by either of the above-mentioned mediums?
No one ! Yet Mr. Thomas Dixon, Jr., has undertaken to
do that very thing in an article written in defense of the
"Clansman," published in the September number of the
Metropolitan, in reply to the following criticism of his lat-
est work in a Boston paper: "He reaches the acme of his
sectional passions when he exalts the Ku Kluz Klan into an
association of Southern patriots, when he must know, or
else be strangely ignorant of American history, that its
members were as arrant ruffians, desperadoes and scoun-
drels as ever went unhanged." This is the verdict of the
world that has already passed into history. But Mr.
Dixon attempts to set aside this verdict by publishing the
pictures of some of the prominent leaders of the Ku Klux
Klan and asks the world to forget their awful misdeeds and
accept them as paragons of excellence because of the come-
liness of their features. In Mr. Dixon's gallery of photo-
graphs appears the likeness of Gen. John B. Gordon, of
Georgia, General Forrest of Tennessee, Rev. W. W. Lan-
dum of Atlanta, Ga. ; Hon. John W. Morton of Tennessee.
34
The gentleman has included the likeness of his own father,
the Rev. Thomas Dixon, Sr., and unwittingly brands him
as a red-handed murderer, a kind of Dr. Jeykel and Mr.
Hyde, who could by day preach the Gospel of a loving and
forgiving Christ, and at night creep forth in ghastly regalia
to assist devils in the work of murder and rapine.
In comparing the likeness of his father with that of
Thaddeus Stephens, Mr. Dixon says, "A study of the por-
trait of Thaddeus Stephens, the man who created the Union
League and sent it on its mission of revenge and confisca-
tion, and the face of my father may settle the question as
which of two was the desperado in this stirring drama."
To further strengthen his defense of the Ku Klux Klan and
its dastardly work, the reverend gentleman, in contrast to
the handsome likenesses of some of its members, has pub-
lished the picture of a colored man, "The lowest type of
negro, maddened by these wild doctrines, began to grip the
throat of the white girl with his black claws. The bestial
looking creature whose portrait accompanies this article is
a photograph of this type from life. It appeared in the
first editon of my novel, 'The Leopard's Spots,' but the
publishers were compelled to cut it out of all subsequent
editions, because Northern readers could not endure to
look upon the face of such a thing, even in a picture." And
yet we come across or meet just such looking men in our
every day life in Northern cities ; they are the trusted but-
lers, coachmen and men of all work in nearly every aristo-
cratic Southern home. Northern women who went South
just after the war went about unmolested, and such women
are still going about unmolested among such "things." In
the month of July, while in the city of Philadelpha, I
attended services one Sunday morning at the Wesley Metho-
dist Church and listened to an eloquent sermon by an
eminent Christian minister with just such a looking face as
appears in Mr. Dixon's article. Doubtless no sweeter soul
lived than reposed beneath that ebony skin, and no provo-
cation however strong could induce this homely disciple,
made in the image of his Maker, to stoop to perform the
knavish work which Mr. Dixon boasts his father per-
formed.
35
TAKES ISSUE WITH THOMAS NELSON PAGE
AND THE REV. MR. DIXON
To the Editor of "The Brooklyn Eagle" :
Now that Mr. Thomas Nelson Page has written the last
installment of his very interesting study of the Race pro-
blem, the question uppermost in my mind, as I ponder over
the closing article before me, is, would Mr. Page lift a
finger to remove one of the defects in the race he has so
glaringly enumerated? Would not Thomas Nelson Page
resist with all the strength of his manhood any attempt
on the part of friend or foe to open the closet of the South-
ern home that the skeleton which hides there might stalk
forth in all of its ugliness? Yes! a thousand times Yes!
An attempt at such a thing on the part of an editor in
Memphis, Tenn., some years ago, resulted in the demolish-
ing of his entire plant. Another such attempt at Wilming-
ton, N. C, in 1898, resulted in the wild hunt for a fugitive
in seven States. Looking at the situation from this view-
point, Mr. Page occupies the positon of a giant in armor
striking at a pigmy. If such an attack upon a neighbor
and benefactor is Mr. Page's version of Southern chiv-
alry and manhood, let us build a monument to Judas Iscar-
iot and compose anthems of praise to Benedict Arnold.
Emerging slightly from the beaten path, Mr. Page divides
the Negro race into three classes, i. e., the respectable, the
middling respectable and the very bad. He could have done
much in the way of assisting that respectable element by
using his pen in an assault upon the law just passed in the
State of Virginia, which places such a woman as Mrs.
Booker T. Washington on a level with the lowest of bad
women. The gentleman reluctantly admits that the Negro
has been an indespensible adjunct — a potent factor in build-
ing and maintaining this republic, and yet he would deprive
him from breathing the air he has helped to free and purify.
To put a little more than 3,500,000 blacks in this country it
cost Africa 40,000,000 human lives by butchery, starvation
and drowning. A trail of blood followed the slave ships
from Africa's shores to the American coast. Should not the
penalty for such a horror be a more perplexing problem ? As
36
is not the case with the white race, Mr. Page asserts that
education does not improve the Negro's morals. He is a
very low being. But listen to an attack from the mouth
of the Rev. Mr. Dixon from quite another and unexpected
source, in a sermon delivered in a certain Brooklyn theatre,
Sunday, May 8th. He said: "There are villages in New
England to-day without a religious service from January
until December, except an occasional funeral service, where
the Sabbath is no more regarded than by Judge Gaynor
here, and where marriage is scarcely more regarded than by
the people in the heart of Africa. The people have drifted,
not into infidelity, but into licentiousness and sin upon sin,
and they are learned and cultured," etc. These are white
people, and the same may exist in Mr. Page's neighbor-
hood, but he hasn't the courage to say it, neither has Rev.
Dixon, who is a Southerner. Not many years ago in a Vir-
ginia city, a Negro man and a white woman agreed to
marry, and in order to avoid trouble, went to Washington,
married there and returned. But these two honest people
were arrested, tried and sentenced each to five years in
prison, and the judge in sentencing them gave them a long
and severe lecture on ethics. And yet that very judge
maintained a Negro woman with six mulatto children with-
in two blocks of his home. Most learned judge! Most
excellent exponent of ethics ! He was a white man ! This
Negro woman was the leper to be shunned. It's a great
thing to be a white man ; it sugars over the grossest sins
and vineers the roughest exteriors. No wonder ignorant,
renegade Negroes are clamoring for face bleach.
37
JACK THORNE UTTERS A BLAST FOR MANLI-
NESS
To the Editor of "The Brooklyn Eagle" :
When a few evenings ago I listened to an address by a
member of the Afro-American Business League, before
the Literary Society of the Carlton Avenue Branch of the
Y. M. C. A., on his recent visit South, I remarked at its
conclusion that comments on the material advancement of
the Southern Negro in consequence of the general denial
of the franchise, should not be indulged in by our leaders
as a reason why he should eschew politics. But what I said
was not favorably received by the audience, who was mis-
led by the fierce retort of the speaker, who held that politics
was a bane to the progress of the Southern man of color.
I hold, however, that if the ballot is not good for the Negro,
it is not good for the white man. If it is not good for the
ignorant, it is not good for the learned. If it is not good
for the poor it is not good for the rich. But I refrained
from prolonging the argument. A few days since a pub-
lished interview had with this gentleman by a Brooklyn
paper's representative, relative to his Southern trip, has
been handed me by an indignant citizen, with a request that
I answer it. Our friend says that he stopped at many
points (going South) long enough to acquire information
on the condition of the Negro and the relations between
the two races. He looked and listened in vain, he said, for
encouragement. "But passing through the South this way,
one is confronted with the worst phase of the problem (?)
because the stations and depots are the centers of the sloth-
ful, vicious and ignorant class of Negroes." The gentle-
man saw more in Atlanta to be ashamed of than proud of,
"for the worst of the race is in the majority and more in
evidence, and the race is judged in the South by its worst
side. So long as the self-respecting Negroes are in the
minority, the slothful, vicious Negroes will be mill-stones
about their necks." Too bad ! Too bad, indeed ! The
Southern Negro is noted for his humble manners, gener-
38
osity and hospitality, looking for the best in the storehouse
to put before the stranger, and I am a witness to the fact
that for preparing nice, juicy, tender, fried chicken, all
done up in batter, the Southern Negro is peculiar. Now
who is that so base and ungrateful as to rise from a table
where such delicious victuals are served and "backbite" the
neighbor who prepares it? We are, indeed, sorry that this
gentleman could not return to the North with something
more original and interesting to talk about. The white
man, when he returns from the South, usually returns
Southern hospitality by publicly saying something to please
them, and nothing is more pleasing to the average South-
erner than expressed sympathy for him in his very un-
pleasant environments (all his own making) and a tirade
against the Negro. The late Miss Frances Willard, on her
return from a lengthy stay in the South, publicly thanked
her Southern hosts by saying in a magazine article, "I pity
the Southern people. The Negroes are swarming like
locusts in Egypt, and the white man dare not leave the
threshold of his own door," etc. A more malicious false-
hood was never uttered against a defenceless people. The
white man can leave the threshold of his door, and does
leave it to cross that of the black man to scatter shame
and ignominy, which he can do with impunity. Now why
didn't the gentleman follow this example and kick the other
fellow? When a few years ago ex-Gov. Northen of
Georgia invaded Boston armed with a typewritten defence
of the burning of Sam Hose, the Congregational Club of
that city paid two dollars a ticket to hear an African Metho-
dist bishop refute the charges made by the Georgian against
his people and defend them. The members of that club
and their friends listened in disgust to a crawling Negro
who joined Northen in his tirade of abuse. "Thou too
Brutus?" That very bishop is supported in luxury by those
low( ?), vicious ( ?) Negroes, whom he was not man enough
to defend, and they should repay him by cutting off his
meal check.
Now our friend could have given us more interesting
talk had he scoured around Atlanta and made a study of
the low whites of that section, for God has not created a
39
being lower in the scale of humanity than a Georgia
"cracker," the descendant of indentured slaves, lifted out of
serfdom by Lincoln's proclamation. He could have found
hordes of such creatures, sitting about, whittling sticks and
waiting for an opportunity to commit some act of barbar-
ism. At Nashville, which he also visited, he could have
found more of this peculiar people to interest him, and fur-
ther over in western North Carolina, and in the wilds of
Kentucky he could have found material with which to have
written a story as weird and fantastic as Haggard's "She."
How he could have thrilled his audiences ! The good white
people are not losing any sleep over this class amongst their
race, neither are they "mill stones about their necks." I do
not believe that there can be found in Atlanta or its vicinity,
or any where in the South, Negroes low enough, base
enough, blood-thirsty enough to plan the burning at the
stake of a human being on the Sabbath day; to charter
trains to run excursions to the scene 'that women and chil-
dren might witness the shocking sight of a man's flesh be-
ing torn from his body ere he dies, to hear the wails of a
tormented creature, praying for death to end his misery.
No black this side of Dahomey could have loaded his pock-
ets with pieces of charred human flesh and minced liver and
heart to hand around to his friends as souvenirs. Now
until this heathen is routed out, killed off or civilized it is
nonsense to be harping on the shortcomings of the Negro,
who is far better.
Brooklyn, Oct. ioth, 1903.
THE NEW ORLEANS RACE RIOT
To the Editor of "The New York Times" :
There has been no act of violence in recent years in the
South more atrocious and shameful than that of that mob
upon the streets of New Orleans a few days ago. The
claim of the mob and their sympathizers is that a Negro
desperado had killed a police officer in the discharge of his
duty. Yet there is nothing in the affair to show that Robert
40
Charles, who was sitting quietly upon his doorstep when
interfered with, was a desperate character. The title of
"desperado," "Negro murderer," is very easily obtained in
the South. To strike back in his own defence, even to
save his own life, has made the Negro an outlaw in the
South and put a price upon his head. But who were the
desperadoes in this case? That mob of men and boys who
terrorized New Orleans and trampled upon law and order.
Looking over this awful event, I can see but one hero — one
man, and that was Robert Charles. If this calm, nervy,
deliberate black man, facing certain and ignominious death,
and yet using his rifle with such telling effect, is not a hero,
then let the names of the martyrs of the Alamo be erased
from the page of history. One hundred and fifty men like
Robert Charles and armed as he was would have brought
that mob to its senses. David, the shepherd boy, in his
lament over Saul and Jonathan, slain in battle against the
tantalizing Philistines, counseled Israel to teach the chil-
dren the use of the bow. The child should be taught that
self-defense is as essential, as obligatory as self-respect,
and the use of the rifle as the alphabet.
Brooklyn, 1899.
A PROTEST AGAINST THE UTTERANCES AT
THE Y. M. C. A. CELEBRATION
To the Editor of "The Brooklyn Eagle":
It was indeed a happy assemblage that gathered at the
first anniversary of the colored branch of the Young Men's
Christian Association — happy over a most flattering show-
ing of an organization just one year old. When an audi-
ence is in a jovial mood its discriminating faculties become
dormant and the applauding spirit predominates to such an
extent that both the sublime and the ridiculous in the per-
formance are alike encouraged. While the music and
speech-making were creditable, some of the latter was not
without a smack of the ridiculous. For to say to a people
41
whose ancestors landed here before the Pilgrim Fathers
that they have yet to earn their citizenship is both ridiculous
and un-Christian. Such a thing is not said to the meanest
emigrant. No Christian can afford to accord to the brother
in black anything less than citizenship, and that carries with
it a common interest in the wealth and prosperity of the
country of which he is a citizen. It is characteristic of the
average Afro-American to be liberal with his "Amen" and
"That's so," but he should not give such assent to any
speech-maker who seeks to impress the doctrine that he
himself is the recipient of that which he had no part in
accumulating; that he has been for two hundred and fifty
years an idle on-looker while the white man accomplished
everything. He who hewed down the forests, tilled the
fields, made the breadstuffs, is just as indispensable in the
building of a nation as he who pockets the proceeds and
makes the laws. That power which is at work, seeking to
in any way abridge the privileges of the black citizen is
of the devil. It is hoped that the compromising attitude
of one of the prominent speakers at that anniversary does
not characterize the giver of that handsome building to the
Carlton Acenue Branch of the Y. M. C. A., who should feel
himself a steward of God's wealth.
Brooklyn, May 23d, 1903.
THE STATESBORO LYNCHING
To the Editor of "The Brooklyn Eagle" :
E. A. Corey of Statesboro, Ga., attorney for the two
Negroes recently burned at the stake at that place, is quoted
as saying that it was impossible to save these men ; that the
mob, which was composed of some of the best people of
Bulloch County, had laid their plans with precision that
could not fail of success. God help the worst people of
Bulloch County. We can reckon upon no best people in
passing upon an episode of this kind. The people of the
42
North should no longer allow themselves to be deluded by
the threadbare excuses that the "atrociousness of the
crime," etc., "roused the people to take the law into their
own hands and meet out such punishment as a warning to
others." Embittered by the Negro's freedom and phenom-
enal advancement, these people need no atrocious crime to
arouse them to intimidation, murder and tortune. Bits of
the charred remains of these men Cato and Reade were
packed by some of the members of the mob, and only the
stout refusal of the express company to ship them saved
the President from the insult of receiving these ghastly
relics as a present from Georgia's "best people," who would
rather burn than "his Negroes." When, in '98, six men
under suspicion of having burned a barn were tied and shot
to death at Palmetto, Ga., Governor Chanler excused the
deed by saying that McKinley had insulted the South by
sending Negroes to the Spanish-American war, and the
sight of Negroes carrying swords and wearing bars so
exasperated the Southern people that the deed was excus-
able. Gov. Chanler could not shoot McKinley for insulting
the South, so he glutted his ire by sanctioning the butchery
of six innocent men. It is said that it was the story of the
little girl's piteous plea to the murderers to spare her life
that so aroused the mob, but would a plea of that sort from
a Negro child to a white murderer in Georgia so arouse?
It would be as easy to stop the earth in its course as to con-
vict a white man for such a crime against a Negro family
in the South. The only crime Postmaster Baker had com-
mitted at Lake City, S. C, was that of holding by appoint-
ment a Federal position. But a mob burned his home, shot
him to death, killed an innocent babe in his arms and wound-
ed his wife and daughters. The awful details of this crime
by one of the murderers upon the witness stand aroused no
one. Even the tears of the judge failed to move a jury to
convict a gang of self-confessed murderers. Past experi-
ence with deeds of this kind prompts us to question the guilt
of Cato and Reade. Considering even the alleged confessions
of the men, the testimony of their wives reinforced by that
of the "best people," there is room for reasonable doubt.
Brooklyn, Sept. 5th, 1904.
43
LETTERS OF JACK THORNE; THEY ARE VE-
HEMENTLY OBJECTED TO BY WOMAN
CORRESPONDENT
To the Editor of "The Eagle" ' :
From my point of view, I hardly think there is another
paper aside from the "yellows" that would permit such dis-
gusting, anarchistic matter as you print about once a week
from the pen of the Negro admirer, Jack Thorne. All
papers without Negro blood on the staff put these dreadful,
ignorant, ranting productions in the waste basket. The dis-
gusting details set forth, if printed, should be accompanied
by illustrations like those of the sensational papers. Some
of the Eagle tours should be conducted through the South,
taking relays of hard- worked editors along so they would
be able to see things at close range and not depend on
creatures like Emma Goldman for information. The mor-
bid details given in the last serving printed to-day never
appeared in the news columns of the Eagle, or any other
claiming cleanliness. Why then in a letter? People who
read decent literature, and who have traveled and lived all
over this country, do not like to read such filthy things in
print, even in the advertising portions. If I am obliged to
read it I shall just discontinue patronage of the Eagle as an
advertiser and as a subscriber. I know others who will not
stand it. Why don't you get out a Negro sheet for that
class of patronage? The ones you try to include would be,
no doubt, accommodated. The next thing of the kind in the
Eagle's columns will cost it many dollars of withdrawn
advertisements, and I will never send it through the mails
again or allow it in my presence.
Brooklyn, Sept. 7th, 1904. ANNIE CARTER.
The Eagle gives perfect freedom of discussion in this
column to all who comply with the simple rules which have
been made and which are printed from time to time. It
prints Jack Thome's letter because the rules are complied
with, just as willingly as it prints this correspondent's let-
ter, because it believes the opening of its columns to such
discussion is one of the most important of its public duties.
EDITOR "EAGLE."
44
VIEWS OF R. S. KING ON THE GEORGIA
LYNCHING
To the Editor of "The Eagle" :
In Georgia, which was admitted into the Union prema-
turely, before its people were civilized and fit to be ranked as
citizens — a district that to-day is barbarous, and whose most
civilized are amply rankling with savagery to shake the
foundation of any constitutional government — occurred an
act that has not only disgraced the Southern States, but one
that has belittled in the eyes of foreign republics the land of
the brave and the free. The Negro boy criminals, like
Caucasian boy criminals, committed the atrocious crime of
murder. They were arrested, tried and condemned to die,
of course. A reverened brother of the criminals' prey is
said to have discountenanced violence and exhorted the
murderous Christian brethren, church members and others
directly connected with the worst outrage in the annals of
crimonology; but too indistinguishable were the majestic
ethics of legal execution from rough shod barbarity for
them and too rankling with breeded savagery were these
men to let the law enjoty its supremacy.
This act serves to demonstrate that the South is lurid
with depraved ignorance and wicked savagery. Robert
Ingersoll once said, if you should give him Georgia and
hell, he'd rent out Georgia and live in hell.
R. S. KING.
Brooklyn, N. Y.
MRS. PARKER DEFENDS JACK THORNE
To the Editor of "The Brooklyn Eagle" :
In last week's Collier's — Leslie's, also — are pictures of
the recent burning of Reed and Cato at Statesboro, Ga.
The one illustration shows the men before the burning,
chained to a tree. After the awful execution the other one
is taken, and shows a small heap of ashes by the smoking
stump. Leslie's and Collier's are not classed as "yellows,"
45
but are rather two of the leading magazines of this coun-
try, and yet they care so little about the standing of the
American Nation among other civilized peoples that they
unblushingly scatter broadcast such ghastly evidences of
American depravity and retrogression. The correspondent
calling herself Anne Carter should vie with Jack Thorne
in denouncing this awful blot upon civilization, instead of
assailing him as an ignorant writer of anarchistic matter.
There never was more ignorant ranting indulged in than the
anamidversions upon the administration of President
Roosevelt that fell from the lips of Howell and Walters a
few evenings ago. Mrs. Carter would do well to read these
rantings. They are more disgusting than Jack Thome's
defense of a humble people. Some one remarked the other
day that the Czar of Russia should be hanged. Should not
the Governor of Georgia be hanged also? If Georgia was a
Russian province he would be hanged if he did not punish
the perpetrators of this awful crime. The American Negro
is being butchered, hanged, flayed alive and burned at the
stake, and there seems no redress neither in State or coun-
try, to which they have proven themselves loyal in every
conflict waged for the country's maintenance. During the
Civil War the slave guarded safely the home of the master
on the battlefield, whom he had every reason to believe
would not come back. Now because that war waged for
the perpetuation of slavery and the increase of slave terri-
tory resulted in the victory of Union arms and the conse-
quent freedom of that faithful slave, every method is re-
sorted to to make his freedom undesirable. If Mrs. Carter
thinks Jack Thome's writings "ranting," I hope that he will
continue to rant until the white race realizes that for its
own preservation, for its own integrity, humane treatment
must be accorded to others.
MRS. M. E. J. PARKER.
Brooklyn, Sept. 12th, 1904.
Mrs. Mary Elizabeth Jobes Parker, author of the above
brave epistle, is among the most interesting of Brooklyn
women, with a wonderfully retentive memory. A fascinat-
ing and instructive conversationist, Mrs. Parker's reminis-
46
cences of her early life in New York, her personal acquaint-
ance with men and women of the race who figured promi-
nently in the business and social life of the great Metropolis
in days gone by, make her a most interesting host. Mrs.
Parker, who was born in New Jersey and who taught
school in that State before the War, comes of noble an-
cestry. Her grandmother and great-grandmother on her
mother's side were English ; her great-grandmother on her
father's side was an African princess who, because of her
marked intelligence, was given her freedom. Her great-
grandfather on her father's side was a Madigascan. Mrs.
Parker is one of the most successful book canvassers of the
East; she has handled the works of nearly every author of
the race. She has been quite a successful insurance writer
and is now an agent for the Metropolitan Mercantile &
Realty Co. Mrs. Parker is an earnest and unswerving
race-woman, always ready, both with tongue and pen, to
champion the cause of her people.
GOVERNOR TERRELL'S CHIVALRY
To the Editor of "The Brooklyn Eagle" :
It is said of George Washington that one day while he
was conversing with another gentleman, a Negro slave
passed and raised his hat, and Washington, to the astonish-
ment of his companion, returned the salute by raising his
hat also.
"Why General," asked the other, "do you thus salute a
Negro ?"
"I cannot allow a Negro to be more polite than myself,"
returned Washington." I do not suppose this incident was
made a campaign slogan, or that an extra cession of Con-
gress was called to discuss the propriety or impropriety of
Washington's civility to a slave. General Washington's polite
note to Phylis Wheatly, the Negro poetess, is among choice
American literature. What a contrast is this, the Father of
47
His Country to Governor Terrell of Georgia, who is loud
in the praise of an officer from that State who refused to
return the salute of a freeman and an officer at Manassas !
Had this officer been of the same race the Nation would
have risen up to condemn this man for conduct unbecom-
ing an officer and a gentleman. Because a State or even a
whole Nation boasts that a thing is right, does not make it
right. We could not have done without the Black Phalanx
in '63, and the immunes were indispensable in '98, and are
we sure we may not need them again? Shall not they who
led the assault and "memorized another Golgotha" at San
Juan, share the honors of war in times of peace? Talk of
shooting down such benefactors as they passed in review
is unprecedented even among heathen nations. Days when
knighthood was in flower and barons held their sway are
past. He who would exact homage must remember that
there is some concession on his part, even to the humblest,
expected. The master who kicked his chattels and exacted
obedience to his every wish, must realize and appreciate the
fact that he who was once an abject is a man.
Brooklyn, Sept. 18th, 1904.
48
HITS AT JACK THORNE AGAIN
Mr. Goodsir Once More States His View
of the Lynching Question
To the Editor of "The Brooklyn Eagle":
In the Eagle of September 15th was an article by John
P. Goodsir, in which he referred to Jack Thorn and R. S.
King, two negroes, as vindicating Negro crime, in answer
to which I would like to advance my ignorance of founda-
tion for his statement.
I have been a constant reader of the Eagle and since
becoming a teacher of this State have taken greater interest
in the paper. Although my parents are among the strict-
est Christians of the Anglo-Saxon blood, I, as a rational
being, irrespective of creed, religion and nationality, must
admit that I really enjoy Mr. King's discussions as I also
do Jack Thorn's. I consider their contributions to the
Eagle the work of brilliant minds.
MISS E. J. EVANS.
New Bedford, Mass., Sept 20th, 1904.
To the Editor of "The Brooklyn Eagle" :
In Saturday's issue, Miss E. J. Evans of New Bedford,
Mass., says: "In the Eagle of September 15 was an article
by John P. Goodsir, in which he referred to Jack Thorne
and R. S. King, two negroes, as vindicating Negro crime,
in answer to which I would like to advance my ignorance
of the foundation for his statement."
Well, as my critic is a Miss, I would like to enlighten
her, and as it is leap year, I claim the privilege of the last
word. In an article by Jack Thorne, published in the Eagle
49
September 7, he says : "Governor Chanler could not shoot
McKinley for insulting the South, so he glutted his ire by
sanctioning the butchery of six innocent men." He also
says of two negroes burned for committing the most hor-
rible crimes against women: "The express company saved
President Roosevelt from the insult of receiving these
ghastly relics from Georgia's 'best people', who would
rather burn him than his negroes."
I would remind Miss Evans of the fact that President
McKinley was highly delighted at his hearty reception by
these "best people," whom Jack Thorne, a negro, insults
by such palpable misstatements. President Roosevelt's
mother was a Bulloch of Georgia, and he has been in the
South associating with these "best people" whom Jack
Thorne, a Negro, says "would rather burn him," and Presi-
dent Roosevelt is a good friend personally of these "best
people," who have not the slightest desire to injure him
nor see him harmed.
These "best people" whom Jack Thorne, a Negro, sneers
at are thoroughbred ladies and gentlemen, and Miss E. J.
Evans of New Bedford, Mass., considers his statement to
be true and interesting. She is perfectly welcome to have
such an opinion; I do not agree with her, and say further,
that Jack Thorne, in making such statements, endeavors to
vindicate "Negro crime," insults our President's deceased
mother's memory, for she was of those "best people" whom
Negro Jack Thorne sneers at, and practically tells a deliber-
ate falsehood in insinuating that Governor Chanler and the
"best people" would like to shoot McKinley. This is the
kind of Negro which Miss E. J. Evans coddles and favors
when she writes such an article as was published from her
pen on Saturday. R. S. King, another Negro, said, in a
letter on a Georgia lynching of two murderers : "This act
serves to demonstrate that the South, so far from being
civilized, is lurid with depraved ignorance and wicked sav-
agery." This statement is a vile insult to all our fair South-
ern women, and only a coward would be afraid to say that
it is a deliberate lie, for this Negro refers, of course, to the
"best people," whom both these Negroes mentioned sneer
at, and Miss E. J. Evans attempts to vindicate. My letter,
50
published on Thursday, September 15, 1904, has the hearty
approval of fair women and brave men, highly educated,
refined and cultured; and a letter published in the New
York Times, the day after mine by James Callaway of
Macon, Ga., he shows clearly that it is not the Negro nor
politics, but merely the question of the freedom of white
women of the South, who are practically prisoners, and in
constant fear of being menaced by crouching Negroes, not
of the better class, which, alas, are in the minority. May
God have mercy on the flowers of the South when Thornes,
Kings and Miss Evans make such statements as they have
done against the South and its "best people."
JOHN PETRIE GOODSIR.
Sea Cliff, Aug. 18, 1904.
THANKS TO MR. GOODSIR
To the Editor of "The Brooklyn Eagle" :
Allow me to thank Mr. Goodsir through your paper for
his clear, concise views as expressed in his letter of to-day.
As a Southern woman of the "best class," I appreciate his
championships and can say I know what it is to live in fear
of the "crouching Negro." ANNE CARTER.
Brooklyn, Sept. 19, 1904.
GOODSIR THANKS MRS. CARTER
To the Editor of "The Brooklyn Eagle" :
Permit me to thank Mrs. Carter for the public expres-
sion of her appreciation of my views on the Race ques-
tion as it is regarded by some, but in reality is the freedom
of Southern women from fear of the "crouching Negro."
In one way, I regret that she has done so, for she is likely
to be flooded with undesirable literature and scurrilous
notes. However, I appreciate her kindness all the more, in
view of the fact that I have not the honor of her acquaint-
ance. What aroused me to expose the fallacy and mislead-
ing statements of Thorne and King was the "Negro cod-
dling letter" of Miss E. J. Evans of New Bedford, Mass.,
published last Saturday, and also the fact that Thorne and
51
King both elaborate on the too popular and untruthful idea
that the "best people" have no desire for the Negro's wel-
fare and treat him most brutally, while such is not the case.
In an article written by me more than four years ago, I
showed clearly that, in a grand majority of cases, the
Negro's personality is not congenial, socially to the whites ;
that society and its circles are based upon congeniality of
personalities, temperaments, ideas and aims. All of us
white people are not congenial to one another. To some
people, as soon as we meet, we are drawn towards them, and
a bond of friendship firmly established. * * *
Now the Negro, who is successfully in business is praised
by us of the white race. However, we do not care to have
a Negro lead the German or cortillon with one of our fair
Southern women. To hear some Massachusetts people talk,
one would think it is a crime because they are not allowed to
do so. Governor Terrell would no doubt take off his hat
and shake hands with an old darkey slave who had served
in his family faithfully and well. I have seen fair women
throw their arms around their old "brack mammys" and
hug them, and I wished for the moment that I was in old
aunty's place. George Washington, we admit, took off his
hat to an old and faithful slave, but Washington did not
slop over in regard to his officers and men for simply doing
their duty to the Nation, their wives, children and them-
selves. JOHN PETRIE GOODSIR.
Sea Cliff, Sept. 21, 1904.
JACK THORNE SILENCES GOODSIR
To the Editor of "The Brooklyn Eagle":
Just a few months ago the heirs of "Click" Mitchell, who
was actually kicked and hacked to death by a mob at
Urbana, Ohio, about five years ago, received from the
county in which Ubana is situated, $5,500. This recalls
one of the most shocking episodes that ever disgraced Ohio.
The yelling of "Extras" through the streets of New York,
with their glaring headlines, and a woman's incendiary let-
ter of thanks to her avengers, made me feel, as I rode down
Sixth Avenue on that day, that — although far removed
from the scene — as though I myself was the very culprit
52
as I felt the burning gaze of my fellow passengers riveted
upon me. Now, at the end of five years, an article appear-
ing in the Outlook (and the Outlook is a recognized au-
thority) states that the alleged crime for which this man
died, and for which this comparatively poor community was
so heavily fined, was never committed. Now what kind of
government have we where a woman can summon an inno-
cent man before her and without trial send him to a death
so barbarous and cruel? Do we live in the days of Cath-
arine DeMidicis, Bloody Marys and Robespierres ? If so,
let us change our form of government to an absolute mon-
archy, put a woman on the throne and revive the guillotine.
I have said, and reiterate it, that the white woman over
which there is so much needless ado, is as safe in Missis-
sippi as she is in Massachusetts, and instead of keeping up
the cry of "wolf," she might reach down from her high
estate and extend a helping hand to the black woman, the
prey of the men of both races in the South, and whose word
would not be taken against a white man in a court of law
south of Mason's and Dixon's line. Know ye not that
Simon Legree stalks abroad unrebuked in the South, so
long as he preys only upon the child of the "alien" ? Thou-
sands of innocent and defenceless Negro girls are led actray
in the South yearly by these very "educated" and "refined"
gentlemen of whom Mr. Goodsir boasts so extravagantly.
Now such weaklings are poor defenders of women. Such
men can "crouch" with impunity, there is no one to run
them down and no law to punish them. The gentleman in
referring to Jack Thorne has taken great pains all through
his letter to stigmatize me as "Jack Thorne the Negro."
Such modes of attack have been very disastrous to us at
times. It is our privilege, however, to dignify that name.
I would inform the gentleman that I am a Negro full-
blooded. Thanks to my sainted mother there is not a drop
of the blood of his race in my veins. It saves me from the
sin of cursing her very memory. I belong to a race too
magnanimous to kick the prostrate, oppress the weak, hide
their own sins and blow other people's short comings to the
winds. JACK THORNE.
Brooklyn, Sept. 21, 1904.
53
To the Editor of the "Citizen":
In last Sunday's edition of one of the leading newspapers
of Manhattan appeared the story of "A Woman Who
Watched a Real Cannibal Feast."
"Mrs. Beulah M. Turtle, a young American missionary,"
the paper goes on to say, "is now telling in a series of public
lectures a story of adventure which eclipses the wildest
flights of the imaginations of writers of dime novels. 'I
can never forget the terrible things which caused my hair
to turn gray almost in a single night. The scenes live in
my memory as a dark nightmare, a horrible dream which I
only wish was not true. My experience among the can-
nibals has been a shock to my nervous system from which I
am afraid I will never recover'," etc., Mrs. Tuttle is relat-
ing her experience with cannibals on the Caroline Islands.
But it seems strange that she could horrify an American
audience with such a story; a people to whom such scenes
as has turned this lady's hair "gray almost in a single
night" are e very-day occurrences, to attract no more atten-
tion than a dog fight to those who read of them; a people
who invite women and children to witness the burning of a
human being alive at the stake, to hear his agonizing cries
as he slowly dies, to see his entrails torn out of his body,
his eyes gouged out of his head, his heart cut out, his fingers
and ears cut off and distributed among the audience, who
eagerly seize them for souvenirs. The very things which to
witness has made Mrs. Tuttle a nervous wreck pale into
insignificance besides the barbarities that it's possible to be
enacted at any time in any Southern State. Mrs. Tuttle
concludes the story of killing and eating of twelve sailors
by cannibals, as follows : "Then I saw a terrible thing.
One of the sailors moved. He had only been stunned by
the blow from the club and had partially recovered con-
sciousness. One of the savages saw the sailor regaining his
senses. Another blow with the club and the sailor was
54
killed and put out of his suffering. The fuel was gathered
and naked bodies of the dead sailors roasted over it. The
chief ate first. After dancing and singing a few minutes he
allowed his followers to partake." That is, indeed, a hor-
rible story. But I wonder if Mrs. Turtle's dramatic re-
citals have the desired effect upon calloused American audi-
ences. "The sailor was killed and put out of his suffering."
Why, that's merciful and even commendable in a savage.
We Christian Americans can go these poor, ignorant
heathen, whose only object was to feast, one better in acts
of cruelty and barbarism ; we roast the human being alive
at the stake and with pleasure witness his agony and suf-
fering and laugh at his prayers for death to end them. It
is an awful thing to burn a human being alive. The
American Humane Society would imprison a person for
such treatment of the lowest brute kind. Yet this treat-
ment of human creatures has become a fixed custom in
some of our commonwealths, sanctioned by the Nation
and recommended by the President in his last message to
Congress, but perhaps unwittingly. "The Negro's worst
enemy is the criminal," says the Chief Executive. But a
thousand per cent, more dangerous to the American
people is the mob who openly defies law and order and
tramples upon justice. There may be doubt as to the
guilt of a culprit in the hands of a mob, but there is not
the shadow of a doubt of the guilt of every man and
woman who congregate for the purpose of wantonly
taking human life.
55
"CAPTAIN" DAVID HAWKINS
HE HAS SHOWN US THE VALUE OF SELF"DEFENSE
To the Editor of "The New York Age":
As a soldier the Negro has proved that he is brave even
to the point of recklessness, that under fire he is a stranger
to fear. But of what avail is this wanton disregard for
one's own life in the defense of the government? Why
make the world wonder at San Juan to be hissed, jeered and
even fired upon by the ungrateful people of a country whose
honor he has upheld? Heroism displayed in battle is not
to be despised or discounted. But that which prompts the
laying down of one's life in times of peace to protect his
home or the lives of his wife and little ones is of more
value. With every weapon taken from him by the laws of
the Southern States the Negro is as helpless as a serf in
the hands of mobs who need only a pretext to tantalize,
intimidate and murder him. But the Afro-American people
need not be without the means of defence ; every cabin
could and should be an arsenal.
To this appalling situation the entire race seems indiffer-
ent; they frolic, they drink, they dance away precious time,
and when danger comes the only weapons they have with
which to contend with rifles are brick-bats. They bring
from the South the same devil-may-care spirit and in sec-
tions where helplessness is less excusable, they are in riot-
ous times at the mercy of "uncircumcised dogs" who beat
and cuff them with impunity.
When David Hawkins, double banked by ruffians, fired
the shot which precipitated the riots in South Brooklyn less
than two years ago, as is usually the case, we were un-
stinting in abuse of this "bad man." But David Hawkins
knows that the "Golden Rule" is not to be applied when
dealing with Irish thugs ; hard knocks are the only com-
56
modities that bring respect. Let us brevet him "Captain"
Hawkins, for he is master of the situation in Baltic Street
and vicinity. When this man of iron left the court room
after the trial of rioters, he went immediately to the scene
of the shooting and not a tough assayed to molest him.
Since that time assaults upon inoffensive men in this sec-
tion have been frequent; colored men being knocked down
and beaten in broad daylight. But "Captain" Hawkins
moves about with perfect freedom. "Captain" Hawkins
was not at home when about two weeks ago two white
roughs entered Baltic Street and in front of his door beat
a fourteen-year-old boy into insensibility while Negro men
looked on and even run away. "Captain" Hawkins was not
there, or there would have been a far different tale to tell
of that fracas. It's "an eye for an eye and a tooth for a
tooth" in dealing with toughs.
"JACK THORNE."
Brooklyn, September 10, 1906.
57
PAUL LAWRENCE DUNBAR
Written When it Was Rumored the Poet
Had But a Few Days to Live.
To the Editor of "The Brooklyn Eagle" :
Please allow me a word in eulogy of our poet Paul
Lawrence, now slowly dying- at his home in Dayton, Ohio.
We as a race occupy too meagre a place in the literary
world to rightly appreciate his genius and his worth. He
soared in realms ethereal, too lofty for us to reach. It was
the Saxon who saw the beauty of his soul and placed him
on high that the world might hear him sing. As he slowly
fades from view the form of William Dean Howells looms
up before our grateful eyes, but for whose generous pen
our flower might have blossomed, bloomed and faded un-
known. We contributed little to him in praise, and his
yearnings now for longer life that he might do more for
his race, makes him seem like the swan which sings its
sweetest song when dying. Oh, Autumn winds, touch
gently the fading cheeks of our bard, whose frailties we
would not draw from their dread abode, but would pray that
the peace which passeth understanding might be his in this
his hour of reflection. We, as a race, environed by the
stern and cruel, have had but little time to dream of the
beautiful as we wrestled with monsters strong and relent-
less. Paul Lawrence Dunbar took time to listen to the rip-
pling of the rills, the murmur of the brooks, the songs of
the birds. Some of us, in our strong love for the race and
in our zeal for their welfare, have waged war to the knife,
knife to the hilt, far beyond the skirmish line. Dunbar
chose to sing that the skeptical might look behind the ebony
58
exterior and see there the sweet, loving and forgiving heart.
Such is true Negro character, to be able to sing even in
chains. By this he has puzzled the dominant and awed the
oppressor. Up from the slave plantation, floating on the
balmy air, perfumed by the waving corn, "Swing low,
sweet chariot," rises above the oaths of the driver and re-
laxes his hold upon the whip. No Greek nor barbarian in
captivity has been able to retain such sweetness of soul. If
ever we needed our Dunbar, it is now, for the war is wax-
ing harder, and we need such as he to bear away the
wounded, cover up the dead and hold the cross before the
eyes of the dying. Robert Burns entered into immortality
at 38, having raised to himself an imperishable monument.
Paul Lawrence Dunbar at 32, raised a mortal to the skies
and drew an angel down. Now that star, just in its zenith,
flickers and flickers and is going out; and we see not an-
other rising to take its place. Dying ! Dying ! Dying !
"Oh wind of the winter sigh low in my grief,
I bear thy compassionate breath ;
I wither, I fall, like the Autumn kissed leaf,
He gave me the roses of death, of death,
He gave me the roses of death."
Brooklyn, Sept. 28, 1904.
59
IN MEMORIAM
Adaline Leonard.
To the Editor of "The Standard Union" :
Some poet has said
"There is no death; the stars go down,
To rise upon some fairer shore;
And bright in heaven's jeweled crown,
They shine forever more."
"That which we call death is but the entrance into newer
life, a life of real beauty, filled with joy unspeakable."
Without comment upon the above theory, or the multi-
tude of others of what death is to the individual, let me
say I believe that death is the great consoler, that ends
every sigh; brings to an end all pain and suffering, for
"There the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary be
at rest." The youthful days of Adaline Leonard were past
when I first met her. She was a woman in the prime of
life, vigorous and full of womanly grace and beauty.
There was genuine zeal in every one of the many efforts she
put forth for the uplift of her people, whether in the school
room or in the church, or whereever she was called upon
to lend a hand. With a comfortable home and the pun-
shine that beamed forth from every brown eye which greet-
ed her each morning as she entered the school room, to
Adaline Leonard doubtless life was most desirable. But
there came a time in that checkered life just closed when
even the morning greetings of loved ones did not comfort
and gladden, for the sunshine had gone out from that once
sunny home and left it real dark. We have watched the
glow slowly fade from cheeks flushed and ruddy ; the vigor-
ous and elastic step slow and unsteady, and eyes once clear
60
and bright scarcely able to discern even faces familiar.
Forlorn, disappointed, although she never spoke of weari-
ness, she doubtless many times wished for the rest that has
come to her now. Although for seventeen years I have
watched the going and coming of Adaline Leonard, I can-
not fittingly eulogize her nor record her many virtues. Let
older acquaintances, and the children who learned at her
knee, some now grown to manhood and womanhood, stand
by the bier and tell fully the story of her life, her virtues,
her trials, her sacrifices. So familiar has been her slight
figure slowly moving back and forth to and from her duties
through Fulton Street, that it seems I must see her still,
at all times ready to pause for a chat, and to involuntarily
sigh and speak of the "Gabriel," who on one sad day went
out from their home and left it real desolate. The hopeless
paralytic in the hospital ward will listen in vain now for the
comfort of her ministering hand, the soft tread of her
weary feet, her patient indulgence, her soothing, cheering
words, for at length her trials are ended.
6 1 Fleet Street.
Brooklyn, Feb. 22nd, 1906.
61
TRIBUTE TO THE LATE EDWIN F. SEE
[General Secretary of the Brooklyn Y. M. C. A.]
To the Editor of "The Brooklyn Eagle" :
Allow me space for a few words of eulogy of the late
Edwin F. See, general Secretary of the Brooklyn Young
Men's Christian Association. An employee of the Central
Branch for nearly four years, I had an opportunity to see
a good deal of this eminent Christian man. While it is
true that in his official capacity he moved in a sphere above
mine, it did not prevent me from studying his character and
noting his many noble traits. Exacting and rigid in his
requirements of those under his direction as general secre-
tary of that great institution, Edwin F. See was indeed a
pattern for those about him of whom he expected honest
and trustworthy performance of duty. To subordinates, he
was never demonstrative nor gushing, neither was he conde-
scending, but met his fellow men regardless of station with
a cordiality that was honest and sincere.
During the fall and winter of 1905 it was my privilege to
greet him each morning as he came into the building, and
to painfully note the slow-fading cheeks, the slow and un-
certain tread which betokened the approaching end of his
useful career. But Edwin F. See, as he neared the Pearly
Gates, did not go thither as one tired of life. He doubtless
longed for a longer stay here, for surely there were home
ties and the companionship of friends which made life here
desirable. The beauties of the world are for the upright in
heart, and to wish to die is unwise. And then again, there
were tasks in the great field of Christian labor that he must
leave unfinished — more young men to counsel, more strug-
gling branches to help and encourage. The rose, blushing
in the morning dew, does not long for the noon-day sun that
will blast its petals and thus take away its power to charm.
62
Edwin F. See will be especially missed at 502 Fulton Street,
where most of his life as a Christian worker was spent, for
"his life was gentle, and the elements so mixed in him that
nature might stand up and say to all the world 'this was a
man'."
Brooklyn, Aug. 2.7, 1906.
Brooklyn, N. Y., July 30th, 1906.
Mr. David B. Fulton,
Dear Sir:
I must thank you for your beautiful tribute to our
dear Mr. See in Saturday's Eagle. What you observed of
his noble Christian manliness for four years I witnessed for
seventeen years, and it was always just as you picture it.
He was a man !
Sincerely yours,
H. C. SIMMONS,
Acting General Secretary.
502 Fulton Street
63
IN MEMORIAM
Kate S. Harris
FROM THE COLD AM. MAGAZINE
I would not call thee to earth again,
With its fitful fever, its toils and pain;
Thy bark hast sailed for the Golden West;
It hath reached the haven of eternal rest.
Yet, it would have been most sweet to me,
To have said Good Bye ere you put to sea;
Ere the summons came "Arise, depart,
For this is not your rest, True Heart."
One who knew of thy Christian grace,
Fain would have gazed on thy silent face ;
With the weeping mourners beside the beir,
To shed with them regretful tear.
Although I heard not the deep drawn sigh,
From the sorely bereft as they passed me by,
Thy motherly counsel, thy life so pure,
Shall live with me as the hills endure.
Some day when my bark hath run its race,
I shall meet thee dear One face to face,
On the shore of the beautiful Jasper Sea,
Where there'll be no tears for thee and me;
No sever'd friendships, dissembling foes,
And no sin to mar that sweet repose.
Till then, Farewell, Oh richly blest!
Thy work is ended : Enjoy thy rest.
64
HENRY BERRY LOWERY, THE NORTH CARO-
LINA OUTLAW
From The Citizen.
A TALE OF THE RECONSTRUCTION PERIOD
In Robeson County, North Carolina, on the old Carolina
Central Railroad, which connects the seaboard with the
interior, within forty miles of Wilmington, the metropolis,
and in close proximity to Lumberton, nestling among the
sand hills, there is a straggling little village known for many
years before the war as "Scuffle Town." The hamlet doubt-
less derived its name from the fact that it was a free negro
settlement. In many Southern States the free colored man,
shorn of the protection of a master, in many instances the
object of suspicion in whom the slave-holder saw possible, if
not probable, uprisings and massacres, was often looked
down upon by the slave who under the protection of a
master considered himself better off. Although many free
negroes in North Carolina, who purchased their freedom
by their own thrift and industry, lived in an enviable sphere,
the shiftless among them were often referred to by the
slaves as "scuffling along." Hence the name Scuffle Town.
Insignificant as this obscure little hamlet may appear to the
stranger with its old decayed dwellings, its neglected streets,
its uneven rows of cabins, Scuffle Town less than forty
years ago was the theater of some of the most exciting
events, the most blood-curdling tragedies ever recorded in
the history of the old North State. For this little hamlet
was the home of the octoroon outlaw Henry Berry Lowery,
who, with his band of bloodthirsty desperadoes, kept the
entire State in terror and the eyes of the whole country
settled upon Robeson County for quite a number of years.
Those of us who are familiar with the history of Frank and
Jesse James, who led that band of outlaws that kept the
West so long in terror by their murders, train robberies and
other crimes, have doubtless heard little or nothing of this
65
man who during the same period and actuated by the same
grievances terrorized North Carolina.
Just as the name of Jesse James sent an involuntary shud-
der through the souls of those who heard it, although far re-
moved from the scene of his depredations, so did the name
of Henry Berry Lowery awe and terrorize in North
Carolina.
Lowery and his intrepid freebooters were all colored men.
The James boys and their followers were armed with the
most improved firearms of that day; with the exception of
the carbine carried by Lowery himself, taken from a
Mexican who attempted to capture him, the only weapons
these men had were knives and double-barreled shotguns.
Although free colored people in the South could not vote, in
some States they could own property and many of them
owned slaves.. These ScufBer Towners, an admixture of
Saxon, Indian and negro, kept aloft from the blacks, and
like Santo Domingans, nursed a feeling of hostility to-
wards the whites. In many instances during the Civil War
free mulattoes sympathized with and cast in their lot
with the Confederates; in Louisiana colored people of
means gave largely of their wealth to assist the
Southern cause. But they were not considered as desir-
able fighting material until the secessionists saw defeat
staring them in the face. Then every available man was
pressed into service, the free negro having the first con-
sideration. The elder Lowery, the leader and adviser
of his people, and who had been outspoken in his con-
demnation of the South's attitude in the awful controversy,
advised his people not to assist in the fight for the perpetua-
tion of slavery. But the whites, feeling it their right to
draft into the service whom they willed, invaded this free
negro settlement and shot to death those who resisted them,
and among the killed was the elder Lowery. Henry, then
quite a young man, was an eye witness to the death of his
parent. Standing over the grave of his slain father he
swore never to rest until every man who participated in that
dreadful tragedy paid the penalty with his life. Those
who recall that dark period in Robeson County immediately
following the surrender, remember how well that vow was
66
kept. The war had ended, the defeated rebel had returned
and the death of Lowery the elder was almost forgotten,
when one day a prominent citizen of Robeson, riding along
the plank road leading from Lumberton to Scuffle Town,
suddenly threw up his hands and fell from his buggy, shot
through the heart. This was the beginning of the work of
vengeance. The death of this man, who was a recruiting
officer at the time the negro stronghold was invaded, re-
called to every mind the tragedy and young Lowery's vow.
The whites of Lumberton and vicinity arose, invaded Scuffle
Town and attempted to hunt down the murderer. But
Lowery, who had laid his plans well before beginning his
work of vengeance, had made for himself a secure hiding
place in the fastness of the great Dismal Swamp; and the
sympathy and loyalty of his people who were ready to die
rather than betray him made his stronghold impregnable.
The killing of three other men within less than three
months after the first tragedy threw the entire State into a
panic and large rewards were offered for the capture of the
murderers dead or alive. Raids by bands of armed men
upon the negro settlement became frequent and innocent
men and women were in many instances beaten and killed
by the man hunters, chagrined by their futile attempts to
locate the outlaw and the stubborn refusal of his friends to
reveal his hiding place. These cruel assaults upon the little
town won to Lowery more friends and sympathizers ; des-
perate characters began to flock to his standard until his
band numbered twenty-five or more of as reckless dare-
devils and cutthroats as ever trod the soil of any country.
Foremost among these were Stephen Lowery, brother to
Henry, and far more cruel, relentless and bloodthirsty;
George Applewhite and "Boss" Strong. Murders became
more frequent and train holdups and highway robberies
were added to the list of crimes which intensified the feel-
ing of dread and insecurity throughout the State. Offers of
large rewards for the capture of the outlaws brought about
more strenuous efforts to capture them, but they evaded the
authorities for many years. Many stories became current
concerning the charmed life of Henry Berry Lowery. It
was averred that he was known to appear on trains run-
67
ning at the highest speed and to reveal his identity to awe-
stricken passengers and trainmen, and then disappear as
mysteriously as he appeared. Another tale was that, meet-
ing a squad of soldiers on the highway one day and re-
vealing his identity so disconcerted and demoralized them
that they could not capture him. One night, carousing in
the village, a raid was made upon them by constables and
George Applewhite, together with a woman, supposed to
be Henry's wife, were captured and taken to the Wilming-
ton jail. The outlaw leader had, however, gained such a
reputation for recklessness and bravery that a threat to
enter Wilmington and burn it so terrorized the citizens that
the captives were released. A Mexican, tempted by the large
reward offered for the capture of the outlaws, visited Lum-
berton and boasted to the authorities there that he would
run down and capture the leader and disperse the des-
peradoes within a very short time. He strutted about the
streets of Lumberton for a day or two, dressed in his showy
native costume, and to show his bravery entered Scuffle
Town itself, and for a while chatted freely with the natives.
Then he disappeared into the swamp, where he built himself
a cabin and remained in hiding during the day and strolled
about at night in disguise.
But in less time than he had boasted to capture the out-
law, Henry Berry Lowery himself walked into his cabin,
told him it was surrounded and that there was no alternative
but surrender. The Mexican was bound and escorted to the
outlaw camp and told to write a farewell letter to his family.
The Mexican complied and then waited calmly for his
execution. But they kept him in suspense until he wearily
begged the outlaws to do what they intended doing and
have done with it. But bloody as had been the career of
this bold and fearless outlaw, he could not do the deed nor
give the order. Seeing their leader melt, all of his follow-
ers weakened except Stephen Lowery, his brother, who with
an oath said to the Mexican, 'Say your prayers and stand
out; I'll kill you." The man complied, stepped out a few
paces and dropped dead. Then a reporter for a certain
great New York daily newspaper contrived to enter the
stronghold of the famous North Carolina outlaws in order
68
to glean from the lips of Lowery himself the story of his
uprising. Hazardous undertaking, but it was successful.
The reporter having forwarded a letter that he was com-
ing, was met at a small railroad station in the vicinity of
the outlaw camp, there blindfolded and taken to their hiding
place in the fastness of the Dismal Swamp. And there from
the lips of the leader himself he heard the story of the
causes which led to the great feud during which a score or
more of people had been killed, most of whom had been im-
plicated in the murder of his father. But the only wrong
thing the outlaw conceeded his men had done was to kill an
old defenceless man solely for the purpose of robbery. At
the conclusion of the interview the visitor was again blind-
folded and escorted to the village, the outlaws not permit-
ting him to open his eyes until the railway station was
reached. Following the reporters return to New York a
glowing story of the Lowery feud was published with a
flattering description of the handsome octoroon outlaw and
the history and customs of his peculiar people.
The career of Jesse James was brought to a sudden termi-
nation by a bullet in the back of his head from a revolver
in the hands of a supposed friend. Frank James has for
many years been a peaceful citizen. Those of the fol-
lowers of these two daring outlaws who were not killed off
have served and are serving long terms in various prisons
throughout the country. The State authorities of North
Carolina having utterly failed to effect the capture of Low-
ery and break up his stronghold, for many months after the
release of George Applewhite from Wilmington jail all
attempts to capture the outlaws were apparently abandoned.
Excepting Henrv Berry Lowery himself, who was ever
cautious and wary, the outlaws with their many friends en-
joyed the freedom of their native town where they met to
divide the spoils from train holdups and robberies. Stephen
Lowery was a banjo player, and often his love for music
and whiskey had cost his comrades many serious encounters
and hairbreadth escapes, and in their flight for safety, very
frequently Stephen had to be taken up bodily by his com-
panions and carried. In the back woods of North Carolina,
upon the old county roads, journeying from settlement to
69
settlement, can still be seen the quaint old white-covered,
sway-backed wagon of the "trader." After the breaking
out of the Lowery feud traders evaded Scuffle Town and
vicinity, but the tempting prizes offered for the capture
of the outlaws often during that long season of terror
caused the more venturesome ones to pause upon the
village streets to trade and run the risk of being killed
and robbed. One day as Stephen Lowery sat half
drunk by the roadside on the outskirts of the village,
slowly running his fingers over the strings of his banjo,
a trader's wagon in passing paused and one of the oc-
cupants engaged him in conversation. "Fine banjer yo
got thar," said the trader. "Straight'n up, ol' man, an' giv'
us a tune ; I know yo' kin do it." Stephen, flattered by the
compliment, assayed to comply. A shot rang out and the
bandit fell over dead. Two men jumped out, severed Ste-
phen's head from the trunk and hastened away. The next
victim of this feeling of security was Boss Strong; he was
shot through a crack in the wall of a house one night while
lying on his back playing a jewsharp during a frolic. But
the murderers failed to get his body, which was immediately
removed by his friends and all traces of the murder cleared
away. Of all this band of over twenty-five outlaws none was
captured and but few were killed. While the feud was on
they were relentless and cruel in their treatment of enemies.
But when the last person under suspicion of having part in
the death of the elder Lowery had been killed off, the au-
thorities had ceased to harass them and their leader had
called off the feud, as calmly and as peaceful as lambs they
returned to their farms. George Applewhite, whose reputa-
tion for daring was far worse than that of Lowery him-
self, finally surrendered to the authorities of his State, and
has for many years been a peaceful citizen of Goldsboro.
But the fate of the undaunted leader himself remains a
mystery to this day. Among the many stories of his fate
is the one in which it is alleged that he had himself stored
away in a tool chest in which he was shipped West, where
he joined the army. On visiting Scuffle Town a few years
ago I found it still a settlement of Ishmaelites with their
fists shut against the outside world, cherishing the old aver-
70
sion for social mingling or intermarriage with blacks. I
found them open to social chats, however, the grandson of
one of the outlaws furnishing the material for the foregoing
story. Some of the men who two decades ago thought
nothing of snufing out the lives of their fellows are to-day
grizzled old law-abiding citizens, their faces the index of
genuine piety. Still men tremble as they recall that awful
bloody period in the history of Robeson County and speak
the name of Henry Berry Lowery with bated breath.
71
THE LAND OF THE SKY
A Pullman Porter's Story
At Morristown, Tenn., on the East Tennessee, Virginia
and Georgia Railroad, a branch of the road leads out from
the main line. This road connects the East Tennessee trains
with those of "The Western North Carolina," a tributary
of the Richmond and Danville road, which runs through the
little city of Asheville, N. C. Often, on reaching Morris-
town, on my way to and from Memphis and other South-
ern cities, has a desire taken possession of me to visit Ash-
ville, and, if possible, find a friend of my early youth, who
had entered the little city many years ago, changed her name
and hidden away somewhere among those beautiful hills.
One day a change of trains at Knoxville, Tenn., gave me the
long-wished-for opportunity of at least a trip through Ash-
ville and a view of the entrancingly beautiful scenery sur-
rounding it. But it's only the name upon the humble little
station and the babel created by the anxious 'bus drivers
from the many hotels and boarding houses this thrifty little
city affords that apprises one of his arrival at Asheville,
which lies hidden behind the hills some distance from the
depot. The first time that I had the pleasure of a "lay-over"
and a visit to the city proper was at the time of year when
constant rains make travel in that section of country exceed-
ingly difficult and unpleasant. The vehicle in which I took
my journey alternately plunged to the hubs in mire and
stumbled over huge stones. On alighting at the town hall
I learned that she whom I sought lived at Biltmore, a neigh-
boring village, and that to reach her would require another
journey on foot. But the road led through a region so
enchanting, so picturesque that fatigue was forgotten. I
found my old friend in a lovely suburban home, surrounded
by a goodly portion of this world's goods and destined to
72
live long like the eagle, because, far from contagions's con-
tamination, she was breathing in the pure air of the moun-
tains. The following morning together we climbed to a
neighboring peak, and it was from this eminence that I saw
Ashville in its beauty. Although the city is upon a hill, we
were so far above it that it appeared to be in a faraway
valley. Black Mountain, looming up majestically in the
distance, and "Pisgah," smiling at the rising sun, made the
scenery surrounding Asheville like that of the Yosemite
Valley. Looking northward, we saw a pillar of white
smoke rise from behind the trees away up the mountain
side, followed by the faint sound of an engine's whistle, and
then a tiny train of cars moved slowly down the mountain
path towards the city to wake the sleeping inhabitants who,
on that early summer morning, had not begun to stir. As
we stood there gazing upon the beautiful panorama, the
"Song of The Mountaineers" came to my mind:
For the strength of the hills we bless thee, our God, our
fathers' God,
Thou hast made thy children mighty by a touch of the
mountain sod;
Thou hast fixed our ark of refuge where the spoilers' feet
ne'r trod:
For the strength of the hills we bless thee, our God, our
fathers' God.
We are watchers of a beacon whose light can never die ;
We are guardians of an alter mid the silence of the sky.
The rocks yield founts of courage struck forth as by
thy rod:
For the strength of the hills we bless thee, our God, our
fathers' God.
The congeniality of this section of North Carolina has
not only caused it to be held in high repute among North-
ern and Western people as a desirable health resort, but
also made it a permanent dwelling place for that class of
inhabitants whose thrift and capital have transformed Ashe-
ville and advanced it far ahead of other communities in the
Old North State and given it an air of envious respecta-
bility. But the pomp and grandeur displayed by inhabit-
73
ants of wealth and means cannot entirely conceal the fact
that the slothful native is a potent factor in making the city
of Asheville cosmopolitan. In striking contrast with stylish
traps, gowns, well-groomed horses and glistening livery,
is the ancient beast of the burden, the ox, hitched to its two-
wheeled cart, slowly plodding its way through the busy
streets, while the driver, unmindful of the noise and bustle
of progress about him, sleeps serenely upon his load. More
interesting to me than Asheville's phenomenal growth and
beauty are these, the original inhabitants of western North
Carolina and east Tennessee — the lean and lank mountain-
eers. Doubtless it was the loftiness of their habitation, their
nearness to things heavenly, that sharpened their sense of
right and gave them the courage to take a stand for the
right during that period in the Nation's history which tried
men's souls. They did not believe that any good would
come out of rebellion against the Union, and no amount of
Southern oratory or buldozing could change them, and in
this they have remained steadfast until this day. Unlike the
frank and hospitable Southerner of the plains, the moun-
taineer is not quick to scrape acquaintance; but after much
shying, beating about the bush and catechising a stranger
he finds him all right, that he's not "er revanoo varmint,
tryin' ter sic th' guvmint on fo'ks whoser pesterin' no one
but jist er mindin' ther own bizness," he goes the lowlander
one better in the copiousness of his hospitality. To the
mountaineer the "makin' of 'mount'n dew' out'n his own
co'n" is more profitable than "tot'n hit toer th' mill ;" and as
he insists upon the illicit manufacture of it, every stranger
who happens around is "er revanoo officer" and is in im-
minent danger until he proves himself otherwise.
One afternoon at "Paint Rock" I sauntered across an old
bridge that spanned the French Broad River and followed a
zig-zag road which climbed the hill to the northward. I
had gone about half a mile when I came upon a yoke of
oxen, hitched to a cart standing by the roadside. The
driver, who had alighted and gone some distance into a
dense thicket was cutting a twig from a small sapling when
I came up. He paused when he saw me, and letting the
bush he had bent, fly upright, came slowly up to where I
74
stood, whittling the end of the twig. "Howdy," he said,
eyeing me up and down ; then going over to where the oxen
stood, he began adjusting the bow that encircled one of
their necks. "Whut mout yer be look'n fer in these parts?"
he continued, stroking the necks of his team. "Oh, nothing
particular," I answered, "simply walking for exercise." He
jerked his head up quickly, momentarily stared at me,
grunted, and resumed the inspection of his team.
"The scenery is quite lovely around here."
"Eny body owe yo' roun' er bout here?"
"Did I say so?" I returned rather warmly.
"Why, laws honey, sence MaKinlay an' Hanner's bin er
runnin' this guvmint eny thing's likely ter hap'n, wunders
never heered of afore; an' we uns wont be tuk wi' surprise
ter see er nigger revinooman er look'n fer trouble an' er
pokin' his nose in whar yaller fever an' measles is er ragin'.
Thars nuthin' new under th' sun."
I had just begun to understand this fellow's strange con-
duct and language; he suspected that I was either a Gov-
ernment officer or a spy, looking for moonshiners.
"I've seed but one nigger guvmint man in my life," he
went on, eyeing me curiously, "an' he wus eh sharp un ;
layed eroun heer amongst we uns, grinned his way in her
our erfairs — ev'n hepp'd sum uv us ter mak' th' stuff an'
git shed'n it — tell one day er white guvmint varmint cum
er long an' led er few er we uns down ter th' village an'
sum er thim er stil break'n rock at Columbus. But that's
bin er long time ergo, an' that nigger's carkis is gone back
ter muther dus' ; fer es strong es th' law wus hit could'nt
save 'im."
There was a triumphant twinkle in his eyes turned upon
me at the conclusion of these remarks to note the effect of
his words, but I betrayed no uneasiness.
"Well," I replied, with unassumed good nature, "I hap-
pen to be only an ordinary working man, a sleeping car
porter, and my car is just below here at Paint Rock."
"Tew be sho," he returned curtly, readjusting his line
preparatory to resuming his journey, "tother feller wus er
skool teacher, preacher, too. Yo' orter heered him et big
meet'n time. Th' las' sermon I ever heered him preach wus
75
et one er them big meet'ns an' his tex wus 'Draw in th'
wunderins uv yer mine an' git ter hankerin' arter truth.'
He wus er hankerin' arter truth an' th' truth killed him.
Yo' know the Scripter tells yer ef th' truth kills yer yo'
mus' die th' deth. I'm kinder rusty on Bible talk, but I think
I'm rite on that pint — go on thar'. Gee Logan. Goin'
my way ?"
"Yes," I answered, trying to surpress the laughter that
this amusing talk from this decidedly queer character pro-
voked, as I hastily mounted the tail end of his cart just as
the team started slowly down the hill.
"Twould'nt improve yer helth ter go eny futher no how,
fer things air purty ticklish in these here mount'ns long
erbout this time er yere an' hit would'nt do ter seek ter
moles' er mak' erfeered."
At this remark I gave vent to the laughter I could no
longer surpress ; the mountains echoed and re-echoed the
sound, even the oxen pricked up their ears and the driver
regarded me with a look of astonishment.
"Excuse me," I said, "but your waste of words on a
simple citizen, incapable of doing you the least harm, is too
amusing for me to treat in any other way but to laugh."
"Jes so," he muttered abstractedly, and turned to lash his
team into a swifter gait. For a few moments silence
reigned. Perched upon a rather high seat in front of me,
this homespun jehu was a study. He had taken off his wide-
brimmed hat and thrown it behind him, thus revealing a
shock of hair of no particular shade; hair grew about in
spots upon his rather broad chin, but refused to screen his
very homely mouth, while over his keen, restless gray eyes,
it stood out like tufts of moss. He was neither old nor
young — in fact, it is at times hard to determine the ages of
these rudely-constructed mountain inhabitants ; like the
bowlders about them, age seems to add strength and hardi-
hood. Upon the short, square body of my companion was a
coarse homespun shirt, beneath a vest of the same shade
and material. His legs, rather long for so short a body,
were encased in a pair of clay-colored pants that hung as
loose as a sailor's flaps, and the wind, freely circulating
around his legs, caused these commodious casings to bulge
7 6
out like loosely furled sails. My last reply seemed to have
satisfied him as to my calling, for his talk contained fewer
insinuations and his manner became less mysterious as we
jogged along.
"Scuse me fer be'n so monstrus tegious, stranger; I jes
wanted her git yer bearin's an' see which way yo' er hed-
din. Wd uns up heer hev had so much trouble of late thet
we air compelled ter be es wise es owls an' keen sited es
eagles, see th' guvmint chap er far off an' hoi' 'im up 'fore
he reaches th' dead line an' makes trouble fer his self. Hav'
er chaw?"
He had drawn a large piece of tobacco from his trouser's
pocket, and, poking it at me without looking in my direc-
tion, said:
"Hits good smok'n tobacky, too, ef so be yo got yer pipe
handy."
I declined to accept the proffered solace on the plea that
I never used tobacco in any form.
"Yo' mus' be powerful lonesom an' unhelthy, too," he
exclaimed, turning around and staring at me with a face
more expressive of astonishment than before.
"Well, I got er little mount'n commodity under this yere
seat an' ef man'll refuse ter oil his goozle wi' sich es that,
he hain't got no liver an' melt."
He was just in the act of thrusting his hand beneath his
seat to draw forth the jug that I might test the pungency of
the beverage, when I arrested it by calling his attention to
a snow-white cross that stood upon a lofty peak some dis-
tance to the right of us.
"Love's Leap," he averred, with a wise nod of his head
in that direction, "tho't every body on top side th' yerth
hed heern tell erbout thet cross up thar, hit's bin tole er
thousan' er moe times."
He had forgotten the jug beneath his seat ; had turned
his back upon his beasts and left them to stagger lazily
down the road. And now, after ejecting a large quid of
tobacco from his mouth and dashing to the road, he rested
his elbow upon his knee and momentarily observed me with
a look of wisdom that would do credit to a college professor.
"That cross up thar," he observed, nodding his head in
77
that direction, "is got er tale erbout hit that's cakilated ter
giv yer er kinder hankerin' ter git futher an' futher 'way
f'm hit when yo' heer hit — least wise that's th' way hit
made me feel when heerd hit; hit happened this way:
"Jes after th' war thar cums ter th' town uv Asheville
wun er them thar Yankee ciarpet bag musick teachers, wi'
purty good manners, good looks an' er powerful lack er
money an' settled deown thar ter do bizness, er ruther ter
flirt wi' Asheville's gals ; an' acorse like suthern gals air
toard strangers they jes warm'd up ter 'im an' soon evry
tongue wus er waggin' 'bout th' dash thisher yank wus er
cutt'n. My, but want he er spellbinder on notes, tho'; he
could gallup th' gammit faster'n eny chap's ever bin 'roun'
these parts. Twus er cawshion ter see his fingers fox-
chasin' an' overlapp'n each uther over them keys. Hit
seemed thet ev'ry gal mongst th' highflyers wus after 'im,
an' hit 'pear'd like he did'n hav no p'tickler laks fer eny uv
'm — jes smil'd an' run on wi' all alike. But he purty soon
show'd 'em thet his hed wus sot on one 'an' sot in yerness ;
an' thet wus th' darter uv old Kurnal Jinkin's, who alius
wus pison ergin yanks. Disher yank had bin in th' houses
ov all th' big bugs, but ole Jinkins swore he'd never cross
his sill. But th' gal, in santerin' roun' tother folkses houses,
met an' coted 'im thar. Thet which cosses us mos' is thet
we hanker arter mos', an' wus th' way wi' thet gal an' thet
ding yank; he jes uptd an' got sot on thet gal th' fus time
he saw 'er — luv at fus site, an' ginewine at thet. Ther ole
kurnal pitched an' snorted when larn'd th' truth, tol' th' gal
he'd see 'er ded afore he'd consent fer her ter marry th'
yank. Th' gal she tuk on pow'ful erbout hit, fer she luv'd
th' chap. But she tho't it her dooty ter 'bey her pappy, an'
so jes pined erway. Th' yank he tuk on pow'ful too, but ole
Jinkins stuk out an' sot his boys ter watchin' 'em ter see
thet they did'n' git tergether. Finely th' yank he upt an'
went erway ; then they titen'd th' lines on th' gal f 'r f eer ov
er plot ter jine 'im in th' North. Two monts went by, an'
one dark nite th' gal jes slipp'd plum out er site an' what
puzzled 'em mos' wus thet she only tuk her praw'r book.
Trains war sarch'd, telegrafs war sent an' th' woods war
sarch'd es well, an' hit wus in th' woods they foun' 'er, fer
78
she had lept fr'm thet peak up thar, praw'r book in han'.
Fer deown below thar they cum erpun her body all brok
an' brused ergin th' rocks, th' little praw'r book hilt tite
'tween her bleed'n hans. Th' old kurnal tuk on pow'ful
'bout hit, an' blamed hisself fer hit all. He dug her grave in
th' rocks jes at th' foot er thet mount'n an' buried her thar,
an' raise thet cross 'bove hit. He didn' liv' long after thet,
jes pined away. They say she's bin seen more'n onct er
wunderin' erbout thet place, moanin' ter her self — I hain't
never seen 'er an' th' Lawd'l mighty knows I don't wanter.
"Yes, thets why hits called Love's Leap," he concluded,
with a shudder. "Fur up on th' yon side er Pisgah as yo'
go erlong, yo'll see anuther cross, an' hits got er ghos' story
erbout hit too ; an Indian an' his squaw's buried thar.
Thisher country's jam full er mysteries — whoa thar," and
he turned towards his team to check them, for we had
reached Paint Rock. Both of us had forgotten the jug of
corn whiskey beneath his seat — forgotten everything but
the white cross, still visible, and its sad story of love, des-
peration and death.
JACK THORNE.
79
CUMBERLAND
A Pullman Porter's Story
When the managers of the Atlantic Coast Line made up
their minds that a shorter route from Richmond southward
must be effected, they built what is now known to railroad
men as the "Wilson Short Cut," a branch of road turning
out from the main line at Wilson, N. C, and extending
through to Florence, S. C, by way of Fayetteville, a small
town on the upper Cape Fear River. This lessened the time
of through trains by saving the necessity of going and com-
ing by way of Wilmington, a hundred miles further east-
ward. I had spent a brief period of my early childhood in
Fayetteville, and although so many years had passed since
then, the recollection of some of its streets and buildings,
the old market house standing in the middle of the main
street, the old water mill on the creek hard by with its cease-
less "drumly-drum" seemed more vivid as I neared the old
town, after a lapse of so many years. When, on its way to
and fro the train paused at the humble little station, I would
take in as much of the old town as a gaze from the rear
platform of my car would permit, and from this eminence
watch the inhabitants as they strolled past, to see if I might
discern in the face of some child or adult the resemblance
to some of my own kindred who must numeriously inhabit
that section of the State. Then, there was another whose
face I looked for far more eagerly than for relations, and a
craving to see her made the desire to get off and ransack
the town irresistable. Wilmington had been the scene of
our early school days. And often, as I stood there looking
at Fayetteville's antique dwellings and thinking longingly
of her, it seemed that I heard again the clang of the old
bell, the merry shouts of the children, and the throng of
youth and beauty would come prancing past me. A few of
80
them would pause to gaze into my face and fill me with the
desire to be a child again. Charley Moseley, with his mirth-
provoking grimaces; "Sonie" Bryant, lamb-like in his mis-
chieviousness ; Nellie Gay, with her beautifully rounded fig-
ure, shaking back her luxuriant hair ; dainty and bashful Vir-
ginia Moore, blushing beneath her sunbonnet ; Katie Paine,
old in all but years. Katie's old-time habits made her the
prey of boys whose delight it was to tease in those days.
Stoically returning a blow given jest, and darting about
here and there amongst her playmates, that expressionless
face of Katie's never betrayed the lustiness with which she
joined in the sport. For Katie never laughed right out;
she only smiled now and then, and her smiles were like fitful
rays of light occasioned by small clouds driven past the sun,
not tarrying long enough for one to feel their warmth.
Many years had passed since the parents of this "little
woman," with their immense household, had left Wilming-
ton to try farming in Cumberland. What had become of
them? I had often asked myself, as the train sped on its
way and the sweet vision vanished. Had farming been
more successful than carpentry? Had immense flocks and
herds crowned their efforts in this new venture, or had they
given up the struggle even for existence, and sought rest in
the grave? One day I yielded to the desire to find out the
truth concerning this once prosperous and happy family
and left the train as it slowed up at the station, and by a
few inquiries found — not the Paines, but Katie ; for with
the exception of the two youngest ones, of all that once
large and happy household, only Katie remained. The
father, after a few years of unrequited toil, had sickened
and died, and the mother and others of the family followed
one by one, leaving this creature to battle with poverty and
raise the younger orphans left behind. But the long and
severe battle for existence had not changed Katie; she was
old, but no older than when a child. There was the same
sad face, capable of being momentarily brightened bv a
smile. She knew me not at first, she akimbowcd, tossed her
head to one side and shook it sadly as I stood there in the
door of her cottage and endeavored to carry her back with
me over past sunny years. But not until I had devulged
81
my name did the past, with all its vividness, come back to
her burdened mind.
"Why did you not tell me your name at first? I recog-
nized some familiarity in your features the moment you
came up, but could not connect it with your name. Come
in!" grasping my hand eagerly and pulling me toward a
chair. "I haven't been to Wilmington since we left there,
because of so much sickness and death and the worry with
these children," she went on. "How did you happen to be
here? Laws, I never expected to see you again."
For a long time we sat and rambled through the dear old
past, when hearts were young and free from care.
"I suppose many of the boys and girls are grown up and
married now, and few remain in the old home," she said
with a sigh. "I have wanted so much to see the North
myself, but I've been so burdened with these children." She
sighed again. "Now they are big enough to take care of
themselves; you may look for me out there at any time."
I did not at that time take final leave of Katie. I was
to return after taking in as much of the old town as my
brief stay would permit.
"Your hand must be the last I shall take before I leave
this town, perhaps forever," I said, as I left her at the
gate. That evening I stumbled upon an old acquaintance
who, in search of work, had found a temporary home in
Fayetteville, and together we wended our way to a cottage
far out on the edge of the town, where a rehearsal for a
prospective concert was in progress. Within this group
of light hearts I could see no familiar face, nor hear such
names as "Robinson," "Kelley," or "Fulton" mentioned.
Of that innumerable tribe of mine scattered abroad in
Cumberland and Bladen Counties, here was not a single
offspring to show that they had striven to perpetuate their
progeny. There was one family name, however, that im-
pressed me more than any others mentioned there that night,
because of its very large representation, and that was
"Lacy." There were Mis Sarah Lacy, Miss Lucy Lacy,
Miss Florie Lacy and other Lacys, the most conspicuous of
whom was Miss Sarah, Mistress of Ceremonies, whose pro-
gramme promised to be immoderately prolonged by inter-
82
missions filled with "music by the band." So perfect were
Miss Florie's reading and so beautiful Miss Sarah's sing-
ing that I begged for a repetition of the same at the Lacy
cottage the following day, to which, through the courtesy of
my friend, I accompanied them that night.
The sun was shining in through the window of my
friend's apartment the following morning when I awoke.
He, having to depart early, had been good enough not to
awake me. Dressing myself, I went out and leisurely saun-
tered towards the center of the old town, trying to arouse
the drowsy memories of twenty years. One of the streets,
crossing each other where the old market stands, leads
over a small wooden bridge hard by the water-mill, and
coming up to the court house, turns like a stream of water
obliquely to the left. It was up this street I strode that
morning, filled with emotion as my eyes fell upon scenes
that had almost been erased from the memory. There, still,
stands the court house, with its old bell, which for so many
years had called the quility and just to the bar; and there
stands the old church with its rusty steeple, covered with
ivy, next to which is the old house where I lived when a
child. There, still flows the creek with its ceaseless bubble,
and the mill going "drumly-drum." I paused upon the old
bridge that crossed it, to again listen to its murmur and
muse upon the sweet and yet painful memories it recalled.
Across that bridge many years a-gone, dashed a horse all
covered with foam ; upon that horse sat a hatless boy with
hair streaming in the wind, crying, "Yankee! Yankee!
Yankee !" while "Thronged the citizens with terror dumb."
Across that bridge, "Dewy with nature's tear drops as they
passed," strode Sherman's triumphant legion on its famous
march to the sea. As I stood there, musing over that event-
ful episode, I heard the faint tap of the drum, the shrill
clarion note of the bugle in the distance ; nearer and nearer
it came, louder and louder were the sound of drum and fife,
and the tread of marching feet, and the spirits of those im-
mortal heroes swept past me, on, on into eternity to stand at
parade rest around their grim old leader.
At the Lacy cottage that afternoon, little Florie was first
to welcome me, and while waiting for the others to join us,
83
she gave me a little history of the family. "See, this is
Papa," pointing to a large portrait over the mantel. "Papa
is dead now, but he was very good, strove to give us all an
education and make us self-supporting. This one hanging
over the piano is that of a married sister of ours, now liv-
ing in Virginia. This is our 'Mistress of Ceremonies'," she
continued, courtesing before a small photo, on the end of
the mantel. "But what's the use in my telling you about
her; she has tongue enough to talk for herself. Here she
comes now."
The young lady entered briskly, came up and warmly
shook my hand.
"I knew you were here, knew you would be amply enter-
tained until the rest of us could get in, by the person sent
to receive you," she said, glancing mischievously at Florie.
"Now Miss Sarah will fill us with rapture !" exclaimed
Florie, seizing her sister by the arm and pulling her towards
the piano.
"Oh, wait 'till Lucy comes !" objected that lady, stub-
bornly resisting her sister's efforts to push her down upon
the piano stool.
"Sure enough, there was another."
"Another !" Florie interrupted, "why, there are many
others," and she began to playfully count her fingers as
though the exact size of the family could not be readily
given.
"I guess I'll have to go and fetch in that shy Lucy," and
Florie darted out to return immediately, leading her sister
by the hand. Though apparently the eldest of the three,
this young lady was more retiring and less communicative.
Her part in the rehearsal on the previous evening was very
small, and at home that afternoon her keenest enjoyment, it
seemed, was to listen to her sisters and applaud their witti-
cisms.
"I don't suppose these giddy girls thought to enquire
how you like our little city, Mr. Fulton," she hazarded, look-
ing toward the piano, where Sarah sat with her head bent
forward, running her fingers over the keys as if trying to re-
call some forgotten melody.
84
"I have to-day satisfied a long-wished-for opportunity to
ramble, as it were, among scenes of my childhood; this is
my birthplace."
"Birth place !" they all echoed in one breath. The music
ceased; Sarah turned about and faced me, and Florie, who
was ransacking the music rack, arose and advanced toward
where I sat, hurriedly arranging several sheets she held in
her hands.
"This your birth place? Why! how" —
"Oh, it's many years ago," I hastened to explain, and my
kindred, if any remain, are just over the River."
"Who were your relations?" asked Sarah. "My father,
who was a public carter in this town before the War, was
called by two names, 'Kelley,' and 'Fulton,' and my mother
was a 'Robinson'. Perhaps that gives me a claim upon all
the Robinsons, Fultons and Kelleys in the country."
"The other two names you mentioned are rather strange,"
Florie answered, "but the town is swarming with 'Robin-
sons', and if you'll stay over here a while, why, I'll help
you 'round 'em up in true Western style."
"I found one to-day," I answered, "but my time is too
limited for further search. I hope to come again some day
to look them up. But come, let us have some music, and
talk of things more serious later on."
Sarah turned again to the piano and began to slowly run
her fingers over the keys. There was a voluptuous swell,
and then the music died away. We heard the chimes in
some faraway church tower, followed by the loud notes of
the Anvil Chorus in "II Travatore," and then the music
merged into the pathetic Miseriere, then into the prelude,
to that touching old and appropriate song, "Faraway," and
a voice, soft and sweet, conjured the tears down my cheeks.
Miss Sarah arose and gracefully bowed her acknowledg-
ment of the applause which followed.
"Now as Hamlet said to the player, 'give us a taste of
your quality,' Mr. Fulton."
But I excused myself on the ground that although I had
an appreciative ear for music, I possessed not the skill to
perform or sing.
"Now you can't fool us into the belief that you know
85
nothing about music, speaking as you did last evening about
'harmony' and 'expression','' exclaimed Florie, bounding up.
"He's just trying to see how much we know. I'm sorry he
came to our rehearsal." The little lady pouted like a child.
"A person need not be a performer to know what sounds
well," I answered. "I know but little in that line, and I hope
the ladies will excuse me from attempting to exploit what
little I do know. Both the singing and reading were ex-
cellent last evening, and I was promised — as I cannot be
at the concert — that to-day a wee bit, and the most interest-
ing wee bit, of that proposed programme would be given
for my pleasure, and now, before Miss Florie has filled her
contract to recite, a demand is made upon the 'audience'
to be the entertainer. Now ladies, it isn't fair."
To this the young lady replied by rising and advancing to
the middle of the room and beautifully recited the "Aux
Italiens," to her sister's soft and inhancing accompaniment.
The sun was setting when I bade adieu to the Lacys, to
pass the night with a relative whom I had met by chance
that day. The following morning I sat out to cross the
river into the country to get among the more familiar scenes
of childhood. The old covered bridge which spans the
river, rebuilt after being burned by a retreating rebel army,
gave me no inviting look as I approached it. My foot falls
upon the floor echoed like voices from the dead, and made
me feel rather uncomfortable. It was across this bridge
my father had journeyed in the sixties, like Lot fleeing from
a burning city, to pitch his tent in the wilderness. Close by
the old county road, winding down, shaded by tall, majestic
pines, giant oak and hickory trees and carpeted with their
leaves, in a lowly cabin, we had spent our childhood days.
When father, with the bulk of the family, finally sought a
more promising abode in the metropolis, my brother Abe
and I were left in this fairyland with an elder sister, to
chase the bee, make water mills in the brooks, listen to the
warbling of the birds, and far more sweet than all, the un-
trained, but sweet and mellow voice of this child of nature.
The song bird paused to listen when she sang "Barbara
Allen," "James Gray," "Lily was a Lady," "Ella Lee," the
songs she loved so well, and which cling to me, sweetening
86
the recollection of those sunny days. It was toward this
scene that I wended my way on this brisk October day to
get among the dog-wood and the pine where we played.
The narrow path leading from the road to the cabin, made
sweet in summer by dog-wood and jasmine blossoms, is
covered with weeds now, and all that remains of the dear
old hut is a mass of ruins. But this did not render the
memory of the hallowed past less sweet. "The bird and the
blue fly roam over it still." Flowers that had blossomed for
me so many years gone by were drooping their heads and
shedding their petals as the chill winds touched them. But
they had tarried long enough to assure me that through all
the intervening years they had opened their mouths to catch
the dews of summer and drooped at winter's stern com-
mand. The brook that flowed near by the old cabin ap-
peared less wide, and the path leading to the spring was
entirely invisible.
Abe, do you remember the restless little rill,
That rippled 'neath the oak tree's spreading shade?
Where we used to love to loiter as we journeyed to the mill,
To rest, or in its shallow depth to wade?
Have you forgot the jasmine, and the honeysuckle vines,
The lilacs and wild roses white and red,
Around the trees upon its banks the perfum'd vines still
twine,
Although since then so many years have fled.
The old corn field's a grove of trees which in that long ago
Was one vast sea of living, waving green;
Forever now they rest — the hands that handled plow and
hoe,
And we and them the Jordan rolls between.
Of that old cabin once to us the palace of a king,
Where two bare- footed monarchs used to reign ;
To whose chinked walls so plain and bare, the sweetest
mem'ries cling,
A heap of logs, a mound of clay remain.
There was no sister to greet me ; only a rude mound
marks the spot here her holy dust was laid. Not far dis-
87
tant, her children are ripening into manhood and woman-
hood, and the father is feebly tottering toward the setting
sun. The rude letters upon the humble slab that marks her
resting place have been obliterated by the ravages of time,
and what was written there of her virtues, her trials, her
hopes, will never be known. But no more fitting epitaph
could have been written there than this :
"Nellie was a lady,
An' las' night she died ;
Toll the bells for lovely Nell,
My own, true darky bride."
I quit this scene with a sad and heavy heart, and hur-
ried back to the town that I might say good bye to Katie
before boarding the train for New York. There was noth-
ing in her face to betray the emotions which stirred her
soul when, after a long chat, I arose to go ; but the tenacity
with which she held on to my hand showed how painful
was the parting.
"You may look for me out there ; I'm coming," she said,
with a voice full of hope.
Changes great and terrible have taken place in the old
North State since then ; the despot's cry of "Negro Domi-
nation" has shaken it to its very foundations. Peaceful,
law-abiding citizens have arisen up to slay their brethren,
and as other citizens more prosperous than she have had to
seek elsewhere for what they could not enjoy at home, I
would not be surprised to see some day, among the throngs
of restless, persecuted refugees hurrying Northward the
melanchody face of Katie Paine.
88
A HERO IN EBONY
A Pullman Porter's Story
He was one of the many ragged little vagabonds that
besiege passenger trains which stop daily at "Ashley Junc-
tion," just one mile from Charleston, S. C, which, during
winter and spring months, are laden with Northern people
on their way to and from Florida and congenial localities in
other Southern States. He was as frolicsome, cut up as
many "monkey shines" to tempt the nickels and pennies
from the pockets of the tourists as any of the others. But,
unlike Negro children of his age whose eyes of soft brown
are so beautiful, his were the eyes of a tipler, very red. He
was doubtless as young as any of the others who rent the
air with their songs and shouts ; but his red eyes, his comical
way of blinking them, knotting his face and ducking about
among the others of the company of entertainers, made him
appear like some old man whom nature had cheated out of
his growth and confined to the companionship of children.
My frequent journey ings to and from Charleston had
made me a familiar figure amongst the "children of the
Junction; for the twenty or thirty minutes' wait there for
Southern connections I usually spent romping with them, a
hearty sharer of their sport, much to the disgust and chagrin
of my fellow railroad men, who scorned the idea of seek-
ing companionship with such "uncouth and degraded speci-
mens of the human family," as one fellow put it. But were
not these "uncouth specimens" human ? with the same feel-
ings and propensities as others? What mattered it if their
clothes were mere rags, their faces dirty and their hair un-
kempt? Smalls, Whipper, Murray and others of that race
in that old State who had so brilliantly demonstrated their
fitness for higher things, came up from the ranks of the
common people, such as these. My hero's name I could not
89
easily remember, so I used to teasingly call him "Red Eye,"
and to him and all the little stripplings at the Junction I
was known as "Hey wood." Their barks and herbs in early
spring time, their violets, water lilies and strawberries
always had a ready purchaser in me. I must never leave
the Junction without a bunch of fresh violets in my lapel,
and a basket of choice strawberries in my locker. For they
all knew that "Heywood's return often meant a lot of cast-
off clothing, old hats and old shoes to be distributed. None
of these things — most of them very good — did I ever see
any of them wearing at the Junction.
"I war mine ter Sundy skule ; tink I gwa war um heah
ter git all mummux up 'mong dese niggers ?" said Red Eye,
one day, in answer to my queries.
Old as Red Eye looked, he could jump higher, sing louder,
and run faster than any boy or girl at the Junction. The
Northerner never tires listening to "Go Down Moses,"
"Suwanee River," etc., and witnessing the "buck" and
"wing" dance so cleverly performed by these little South-
ern youngsters. So a performance must be given for every
train-load of passengers that halted, and at these functions
Red Eye was the Undisputed leader. For the pennies and
nickels the passengers were inclined to throw out, the little
ones would cut many queer capers. At times they were un-
reasonable in their demands for things amusing, and trains
would often pull out leaving some of the youngsters wet to
their skins from diving in water for money thrown in to
make the fun more enjoyable. Cruel as this part of the
sport seemed, it was nevertheless an amusing spectacle.
Red Eye, always apparently the least concerned, would
often, while eyes were stretched watching the coin in the
passenger's hand, bound into the air and seize it before
it could hit the ground. Pushing the money into his pocket,
he would leisurely saunter away with such a comical look of
triumph in his face, that the passengers would forget the
disappointment of witnessing a scramble.
One Sunday morning in early spring, before the sun had
arisen to kiss away the dew from the grass, while the air
was still laden with the breath of sweet flowers, I strolled
out from Charleston to attend "Love feast" at the little log
90
meeting house at the Junction. None but those who have
lived there can tell of the sweetness of a Southern spring
time. A mocking bird, hidden away amid the foliage of a
large oak tree, was calling to the sun to make haste, to
gladden the earth with its light. Partridges, squattling be-
neath a clump of bushes, startled me by their sudden and
hasty flight, and a serpent, aroused from its repose, scam-
pered away, hissing angrily at me as it went. Young as
was the morning, the little church was well filled with wor-
shippers and, floating out on the perfumed air, came that
old familiar hymn,
"Lawd in de mornin' dou shalt heah
My voice ascendin' high."
Very much to my astonishment, in a far corner, with a
look of solemnity upon his face that a priest might covet,
sat Red Eye. Solemn as he tried to appear, he could not
dispel the mirth-provoking expression always there upon
that ebony countenance. As I momentarily observed him
sitting there, looking so sober and melancholy, my thoughts
flitted back to the roadside, where he was wont to be any-
thing but worshipful; and forgetful of my surroundings, I
was about to exclaim, "Hello, Red Eye," but the sad wail of
the worshippers snatched me from the roadside to "The
Gate of Heaven," for surely "The Lord was in that place !"
An angel had come down on that beautiful morning and had
troubled the waters, and those humble worshippers were
laving in the life-giving stream. At the close of the meet-
ing, a hand was gently laid upon my shoulder, and that voice
I had learned to love said:
"Hello, Heywood! Wha' yo' doin' heah?"
"I came to see if you really had need of Sunday clothes,"
I answered, good naturedly. ,
"Yo see um doncher, see um?" and, thrusting his thumbs
into his suspenders, he strutted off a piece that I might sur-
vey him to advantage. Turning about suddenly, his face
again expressive of worshipful solemnity, he said: "An'
yo' seed me in dat Amen corner, too ; did'n you Heywood ?"
"Yes, I saw you and was surprised to see you so worship-
ful, so good."
9i
"Oh, I tells yo' ise got de deligion, shoes yo' bo'n; Ise
one er gawd's lambs, an' I spec ter be dar on dat gitt'n up
mawnin'."
He had thrown his hat upon the ground, and with one
hand extended above his head, was shouting and capering
about in the most comical way. There was the ring of
honest truth in his voice, and I believed him. The rough-
est piece of marble can be carved into the form of an angel.
Jesus had died for this rough, uncouth, ignorant youngster
as well as for the "wise and prudent," and made it possible
that he, by the grace of God might be made to "shine as the
brightness of the firmament, and as the stars forever." .
Pausing suddenly, he caught hold of my arm and said,
Come, Heywood, gwa tek yo' home, show yo' me ma an'
strawberry patch."
I followed my devoted little friend that morning to his
two-roomed cabin, there to find new acquaintances and
make new friends whose homely yet copious hospitality
made this humble log cabin the palace of a king. Although
there were knives, forks and spoons for all who sat down
to dine at the humble table, Red Eye felt that I would the
better enjoy my dish of delicious "garden peas," fresh from
the field, if I used his favorite spoon, which he himself had
polished and cleaned.
All through that balmy afternoon we wandered together
through wood and field and by shady brooks in that Eden
of jasmine, honey-suckles and violets, until weary and tired
we sank down by the roadside to watch the spires of the
distant city fade from view as the evening shadows fell
around us.
On my arrival at Jersey City, I was assigned for a few
trips to a Western "run," and for quite a long period was
deprived of my weekly romps with the children of the Junc-
tion. Through the long stretch of country between New
York and Chicago, hundreds of miles are traversed with-
out as much as a glimpse of a single dusky face. How I
did miss my little fun-makers ! How void of real life were
these dreary Western journeyings ! Leaves, faded and dead,
were flying hither and thither, blown by chill winds that
heralded approaching winter, when I, with a load of
92
Cubans, returning from Europe and Northern watering
places, was again moving Southward. It was a dense foggy
night, and the train having crossed the Pedee River into
South Carolina, was slowly nearing Ashley Junction, when
the engine's whistle gave a signal for "brakes," and came
almost to an adrupt standstill. So quickly and suddenly
were the brakes applied that the passengers were pretty
severely shaken up and excited over the sudden and pain-
ful pause. As soon as quiet was restored in my car I stole
out upon the platform and looked ahead, and saw, about
thirty yards ahead of the engine a group of men bending
over something on the track. "Poor little fellow ! He has
broken his leg," I heard someone exclaim, as I neared the
scene. Bending over to get a closer view the eyes of my boy
metmine. In his effrts to run swiftly over the track, one of
his legs had caught and snapped just above the ankle.
Although his sufferings were intense, he readily recognized
me, and smiling through his tears, he raised a battered lan-
tern which, though in agony, he was still firmly grasping,
and said, "Heywood, I taut yo' bin on dat train." Tenderly
we lifted the little fellow and carried him to the baggage car,
and there made him as comfortable as possible. But it was
not until the morning sun had cleared away the mist that
we fully realized why he was there upon the track at that
hour, and whathavoc had been averted by his being there. A
blunder in the display of signals had caused a northbound
freight train out of Charleston to collide with another,
southbound, killing both engineers and thereby rendering
others of the crews panic stricken and helpless. The boy,
whose house was not far distant from the Junction, hear-
ing the awful crash, had hastened to the scene, and seeing
the others helpless, seized a lantern and ran ahead to warn
the passenger train, which he knew would soon come thun-
dering on unaware of the danger that awaited it. And al-
though he had broken his leg before the train hove in sight,
he bravely swung the lantern until the engineer saw it and
stopped. Tears filled the eyes of many who bent over the
little form that morning and lavishly showered money into
the lap of the mother that had borne such a son ; for there,
upon that rude pallet, lay a hero carved in ebony.
93
JEWISH TRAVELERS
A Pullman Porter's Story
The Jew, like the colored brother, has suffered a good
deal because of the universal antipathy towards his race.
Unlike the Negro, whose color is his principal stigma, the
Jew is singled out chiefly by his traits. In public convey-
ances, playhouses, hotels, etc., the Jew is loudest in his de-
mands for his money's worth and his every right as a citi-
zen — a "chronic kicker," to use the common phrase. In the
palace car service the porter has in many instances allowed
himself to drift into the common trend of feeling ,in 4iis
treatment of Jewish travellers. But all good men in the
service will agree with me that on all fine trains and among
the most select, first-class passengers the Jew figures very
largely ; that in tipping he is as liberal as the average Chris-
tian. Admitting that he is a kicker, the Jew is a desirable
passenger ; for but few of the numerous reports that go into
the district superintendent's offices frought with complaints
about trifles to annoy and inconvenience employees are
signed by Jews. The Jew is plain. If things don't go to
suit him he'll speak out about it and often very loud, and if
the employee is civil he need not look for further trouble ;
for the Jew is not a sneak. The Jew is a sociable passen-
ger, he likes to — if there is nothing else to absorb his at-
tention — chat with the porter, which in the main consists
of incessant interrogatories, and, strangely, too, about things
on which one would suppose he is well informed. For in-
stance: "Porter, what time does the three o'clock train
leave?" He knows that the three o'clock train leaves sixty
minutes past two o'clock, but a well-trained employee will
answer even such absurd questions without the least show
of anger.
I am indebted to Porter E. R. A. Lawton for the follow-
ing story:
94
On a train en route from Chicago one night the sleeper
was well filled with a load of jolly good-natured passengers
and among the smokers who puffed away in the smoking
department in the early part of the night was a lone Jew.
When the berths had all been prepared and the porter had
brought in his linen and deposited it upon a seat in the
smoker as a hint to the wise that it was his bed time, the
men one by one began to retire until with the exception of
the Jewish passenger the smoker was empty. The Jew, not
wishing to retire before enjoying another cigar, called the
porter to him, "I sthay, porder, go to mine bert, lower num-
ber six, feel under neadt and fetch me mine gthrip."
"Yes sah," said the porter, hastening away.
The grip was brought, the passenger opened it, took from
it a quart bottle of whiskey, called for a glass, filled it about
a third full, drank it, then offered some to the porter, who
demurred.
"Dhrink, porder," he insisted, "I'm no spodder, I no re-
port at you, dhrink. Dot vas gude whiskey fhrum Brusen-
heimer's on State Sthreet. Dhrink ! id do you gude."
The porter accepted just a little. The passenger put the
bottle again into its place, handed the bag back to the por-
ter, lit a fresh cigar and settled himself back upon the
lounge to enjoy it.
Two o'clock the following morning, when all passengers
were asleep, and the porter was on his shoe-cleaning rounds,
he paused at number six, got down on his knees, cautiusly
reached under it and slowly drew forth the Jew's bag, and
sneaked with it towards the smoking room, there to test to
his satisfaction the pungency of the beverage. It was good,
so good, in fact, that the porter thought it would be un-
charitable and selfish in him to enjoy it alone.
"Hi there Cap'n !" he called to the sleeping car conductor
who was passing at the time. "Come yeah ! Great Jerusalem,
come yeah ! Jes hit dat," holding out the bottle to the con-
ductor. "Look heah, ain't dat de bestes stuff yo ebber
tasted ?" he asked that individual, who, after two long gulps
handed back the bottle and wiped away the tears that the
hasty swallowing of the strong stuff had pushed out of his
eyes.
95
"It's good. Where did you get it?"
"From a Sheeny frien' er mine," returned the porter.
The train conductor, catching the odor wafted upon the
other's breath, naturally raised inquiries, and was soon
journeying down the aisle toward the smoking room, fol-
lowed by the brakeman, in whose wake sauntered the bag-
gageman, and when the three got through "pulling" at the
Jew's whiskey it was nearly all gone.
That morning when the porter saw the man in number
six arise and begin to dress he grabbed his duster and
struck a bee line for the opposite end of the car. The first
thing the passenger did on reaching the smoking room was
to open his bag to take an eye-opener before proceeding to
fix his toilet. But when he drew forth his bottle, and found
it empty, he rushed out into the body of the car, and, hold-
ing his pants with one hand, while with the other he. brand-
ished the bottle, gave a yell and cut up some antics that
would put an Indian ghost dancer to shame.
"Where in the h'll is dot porder?"
Passengers began to move about uneasily, thinking that
a lunatic had got into the sleeper. The porter, hearing the
noise, shyly peeped around into the aisle and was espied by
the Jew, who shouted : "Ah ! ha ! you dondt knows me now,
eh? Vere was da whiskey dat vas in dot bottle, eh? You
vas dhrinking in der smoking room las nighd. I'll repordt
you. Vere vas dot whiskey, eh?"
"'Clar fo' God, boss, I dunno ting erbout it," returned the
porter, coming shyly up to where the enraged passenger
stood.
"Oh, no ! Idt evaporated, I suppose ! It leakdt oudt. I
look in der bag, I see no leak. I look on der carpet, I see
no leak, idt evaporated, eh? Oh — you rascale, I'll repordt
you."
The passengers had returned to the smoking room and
had begun to dress, when the sleeping car conductor came
by on his rounds returning passes and tickets.
"I sthay Conductor," said the passenger, "I want ter
spheak to you."
"Well, fire away," answered that individual impatiently.
"I tuke that nigger in th' shmokeroom lasdt night un' giv
96
'im a dhrink of vhiskey dat cos' two dollar a quardt at Bru-
zenheimer's on Shtate Sthreet; un jus' so soon as I vus in
bed that nigger goes to mine bert, takes oud that boddle an'
dhrinks th' balance."
"You'll have to report that matter to thecompany," re-
turned the conductor, "I haven't time to attend to it."
"Oh, no," shouted the Jew, "You dhrunk, too ; all of you
was dhrunk, de train conductor was dhrunk; sleebin' car
conductor was dhrunk; brakeman was dhrunk; porder was
dhrunk ; engineer was dhrunk everybody was dhrunk on
dot vhiskey, an' I report th' whole crew."
That was the work of a mean ingrate who deserved to be
severely dealt with, but the palace car authorities received
no complaint from the justly aggrieved passenger.
97
LITTLE SARAH
A Pullman Porter's Story
There boarded a southbound train out from Philadelphia
one evening a little Negro girl about ten years of age. She
was as frolicsome and as restless as a colt, with a head as
bare of hair as a boy's. From a letter she poked up at me
in answer to my queries, I learned that she was being re-
turned to her mother in St. Augustine by people with whom
she had been staying in a small town in New Jersey. There
was also an earnest request that she be looked after by
trainmen on the route and safely carried to her destination.
I had often seen children tagged and shipped like animals
from one section of the country to another, and their sad
and forlorn aspect had always awakened my deepest sym-
pathy. And as this little creature was one of my own race,
I included myself as one whose special duty it was to look
after her. But I was too busy on the first part of the
journey to do more than casually glance at her as I went
back and forth through the train. The following after-
noon, the train having stopped just north of Goldsboro,
N. C, on account of a wreck, a few young men in the
coach in which the little girl was riding, were, in order to
relieve the monotony of the long wait, amusing themselves
and others at the expense of the "little nigger" by throwing
old quids of tobacco, peanut hulls, apple cores and squirt-
ing water at her from their mouths. But the plucky little
creature was equal to the emergency. When I entered to
entreat them to desist, she stood in the aisle with a glass of
water in one hand and the stove poker in the other like a
tigress at bay, glorious in her defiance, and making as much
noise as an English sparrow. It was back in the sleeper
that she finished her journey, where the ebony face was
98
washed, the simple frock mended and rid of tobacco stains
and the little head brushed. What a Topsy she must have
been in that Northern household, and what a lot of trouble
that Miss "Ophelia" must have undergone, I thought, as I
stood and watched her come slowly up the aisle toward me,
mischievously pulling this and that lady's hair or bonnet,
or pounding the richly upholstered seats with her old school
bag, which, with the exception of a small box hid away in a
corner, was her sole possession; and it was just because she
was so bad she was being sent home.
"What did you say your name was ?" I aked, as she, with
with a comical grin, pressed down upon my sore toe with
her heel.
"Sarah, Sarah Aaron," saucily; "I told you that three
times before. You men are so forgetful."
Her English was as perfect as any Bostonian could utter
it — so in contrast with her rustic appearance. At Jackson-
ville, where my journey ended, I accompanied her to the
train which took her to St. Augustine. "Come and see us
whenever you come to St. Augustine," she implored, cling-
ing to my arm. "Remember, my n-a-m-e i-s S-a-r-a-h;
Sarah Aaron. Oh, you men are so very forgetful."
It was quite a few years after this before an opportunity
to go to St. Augustine was given me ; it was when the Rich-
mond and Danville Railroad had extended its lines into
Florida, put on through fast trains from New York and
boasted a much shorter route to the Gulf than any other
road.
It was my privilege to be one of the first Pullman men
sent over this new line to arrive at Jacksonville in time to
miss the St. Augustine connection by two hours, which
necessitated a long and tiresome journey to our destination
behind a "local." The very old city of St. Augustine has
been transformed into modern beauty by the lavished wealth
of Flagler, the oil king, and at this time, "Hotel White
Elephant," successfully run by a portly dame, occupied quite
an enviable site adjacent the modernized section of the city.
It was past the dinner hour when I entered the inviting-
looking dining room of this Southern hostelry, the only
person visible being a small sized girl who timidly came for-
99
ward with her face lit up with a smile which seemed to give
her pain. "Two eggs, fried, and a cup 'o coffee, please,"
I requested, seating myself at one of the little snow-white
tables.
"Sah?" she said, leaning over and pulling at her apron
strings. I repeated the order. "And what have you in the
way of cold meats?"
"Bery nice ham, sah," chimed in another voice before that
freezing smile sufficiently relieved the girl's face to answer
me, and the portly proprietress strode out from behind a
screen and confronted me. "An' we hab sum fine fish,
fresh from de ribber an' fresh fried," she added, drawing
nigh and seating herself at a table next mine.
"Catfish?" I asked, thinking of New Orleans.
"Now look yer, mister man, lookyer, we don't put catfish
before customers in disher resterant.
"Catfish is quite savory when properly prepared," I
answered, thinking of the famous old Cape Fear River cat-
so popular at my home.
"Maks no dif'rent how sabry hit is its not de fish Gawd
tole de chilan ter eat 'kase hits wi'dout de scales an' darfoe
is er bomination ; no catfish fer Hotel White Elephant."
"I'l try an order of fish," I said.
No better opportunity than this, I thought, to enquire
concerning my little heroine, whose fate and welfare were
nearer to my heart than this much desired and at length
gratified opportunity to stroll about in the oldest city in
the United States.
"I no dat gal lak a book," exclaimed the portly proprietress
of "Hotel White Elephant," at the conclusion of my story
of my meeting with the child and our eventful journey
South. "She wus de beatenes' youngun dat eber Gawd let
lib. Why, she kicked up so dar in de norf dat dey jes had
ter bundle 'er up an' hustle 'er orf."
"Why, she told me they sent her home because they were
going West to live and did not care to take her so far
away."
"Hits 'er no sich 'er thing; dey sont 'er home 'kase she
bin so bad. I no de time dey tuk her 'way ter be deir own
ioo
chile, but de gal got so high dey had to — now yo' no de res'.
Yo' coffee's gitt'n cold."
She paused in this painful anamidversion to throw one of
her slippers after a cat that emerged from the kitchen with
a huge piece of fish in its mouth and bolted towards the
back door.
"When dat gal got back ter Sint Augustine," she re-
sumed, "she had jes bin norf long nuff ter tun um cumpleet
fool. Talk? Why, she had de Inglish so mix an' mumix
up dat yo' could skasely understan' um. Hit wus 'carry'
f er tote ; 'I cawnt place yaw,' fer I dunno yo, an' when she
felt bad she had er fashion ob trowin' back dat clean hade er
hern an' saying, T feel slitely indesposed tu diay.' Why,
da' gal wus er consumin' fiah. How yo' lak dat fish?"
"Splendid," I answered, scarcely knowing what I said.
This woman knew not how unmercifully she was lacerating
my very heart and driving away my appetite.
"Where is she now," I asked, wearily.
"De lawed knows, honey ; de las' I hearn ob er she bin in
Jacksonbill, wild es er buck." "Where is her mother ?" "Dat
gal's muther bin dade dese two yeahs now." "Mother
dead ?" I gasped. "Den shewent to de bad fast," answered
my informant, with a look of triumph in her eyes. "C'line ;
bring de genman sum moe coffee."
But I declined a second cup ; appetite for more to eat had
left me as I sat there and pictured my little one only as a
child of the slums, with that once innocent face marred by
marks of dissipation. "Has she no kindred at all?" I asked
after a long pause. "She's got er sister sum whar in New
Augustine." I arose, paid my bill and staggered out into
the darkness to learn from her sister more cheering news
concerning my heroine, only to search for that sister in
vain. At midnight, weary and exhausted, I sat down upon
the steps of the old French market to enjoy the refreshing
breeze. Far out to sea the breakers were rolling shore-
ward like lions at play. Onward they came, rolling higher
and higher and nearer and nearer until they engulfed me;
then lifted and bore me to a faraway island of beauty. It
seemed that there were no grown-up people there, it was
child land, a land of Innocence and Love. There were mil-
IOI
lions of little ones gathered there from the north and from
the south and from the east and fromthe west, sporting
among beautiful flowers and luxuriant foliage. As I stood
there wrapt in wonder at the sights before me, the voice of
a trumpet rang out above the din of mirth and merriment;
I turned and looked eastward, and there in bright clouds
above me, with thousands of happy ones about her, came a
May Queen, and among the heralds that preceded her in
her triumphant flight I recognized My Sarah. There were
no marks of sin upon that ebony face; it was far more
lovely than when I first beheld her. The vast procession
swept past me and left her standing abashed before my
astonished gaze. "Oh wicked Girl. How did you get
here?" I cried in my amazement. "How has satan gotten
in here amongst the children of the King?" She raised her
beautiful brown eyes into mine, and in a musical voice she
said:
"I came to Jesus as I was,
Weary and worn and sad ;
I found in Him a resting place,
And He hath made me glad.
"In that land where I met you life lost all of its charms
after mother died; then I became an outcast; for no one
loved or pitied me, and the shafts of the unsympathetic
flew at me with such unrelenting fury that one day, weary
and tired, I lay down and asked my Redeemer to take me
where He had taken my mother. Mother's here, just over
yonder by the Silver Lake where she loves to sit. Come,
she has wanted so much to see you that she might thank
you for your kindness to me. Come; hear them singing?"
I took her little hand in mine as over banks of beautiful
flowers we skipped along. We were nearing the Silver
Lake, with its banks waving with beautiful palms, when a
hand was laid roughly upon my shoulder and a gruff voice
said: "No sleep'n round here this timer nite."
Far out atsea the waves still sparkling in the moonlight
seemed to laugh in triumph at me in my disappointment.
I arose and sauntered back to my car, and on the following
morning as the train pulled out I stood upon the platform
that I might see the old city fade from view.
1 02
EGYPT'S GHOST
A Pullman Porter's Story
One evening- in the autumn of '89 I was ordered to take
a load of passengers to St. Louis in car Egypt, an old
"sleeper" which had for many years been used mainly for
special service. But scarcity of cars in the district at this
time had necessitated the pressing Of this car in as an
"extra," on account of the inpouring of returning traveler
from over the seas, crowding trains from New York for
every section of the country. As I passed through the sta-
tion, the immense piles of luggage and the great hordes
that pressed about the gates led me to believe that my trip
westward would be exceptionally prosperous. But to my
surprise and disappointment, when the train pulled out,
only "lowers" were sold in Car Egypt, and one entire
section — section 13 — was empty. The scantiness of my
load did not, however, so disconcert me as the marked
absence of female passengers; there was not a single
woman passenger in my car. In the opinion of some
railroad men, the absence of women in Pullman cars is
an omen of good luck. The porter who could say, "I
came in 'chock-a-block' and without a single woman,"
need say no more to have it understood that he had
had a prosperous trip. While few men could thus boast
of a party made up entirely of women, most car service
men believe that without her presence in a car the load
is incomplete. The woman passenger not only adds
charm to and in numerous ways relieves a long journey
of its wonted monotony, but her presence invariably
draws out the best qualities in man and puts him upon
his mettle. Although the woman traveller is the most
skilful in art of culling for nickels and dimes, it's the
103
opinion of most porters "dead bad luck" to make a
journey without the pleasant little annoyances that her
presence in a car inevitably occasion. I being of the
latter persuasion, felt ill at ease over this state of affairs,
although my passengers seemed to be of the sporty sort,
more welcome to the porter than any other class of
travelers.
As I went on my rounds making beds, I prepared
number 13 for a chance get-on along the road; but we
passed the principal stations without a call for a bed in
any car in the train. The night gradually grew old ; con-
versation in the smoking-room waxed cold and uninter-
esting; the men one by one threw away their cigar butts
and sought their beds, leaving the porter the only occu-
pant. Alone : there is nothing at that hour of night that
a porter more keenly enjoys. It is the time when he,
weary and exhausted from the irksome labor of bed-
making, falls into wakeful slumber — the sleep of a cat,
which flees away at the slackening of speed, the round-
ing of a curve, the blast of a whistle, the ringing of a bell ;
a sleep which infuses into the weary body no real refresh-
ing rest. I stretched myself out upon the lounge that I
might enjoy as fully as possible this restless sleep, when
instantly there came a long and vigorous ring of the bell.
I arose and scanned the indicator; the arrow pointed to
13, the vacant section. As indicators often register wrong,
I walked up and down the aisle to see if there might not
be a head protruding from between the curtains of some
berth, but saw none. Passengers often make mistakes
and go into the wrong berths : I looked in section 13, it
was empty. Apparently everybody was fast asleep. I
returned to the smoking-room and stretched out again.
A signal to the flagman to protect the rear and a sudden
check of the train aroused me a second time. I arose and
started forward to learn the cause of the sudden stop,
and just as I turned into the aisle I saw a woman in her
night robe right in front of section 13. Her back was
towards me; and she was bent over as though in search
of something upon the floor. I hastened toward her, sure
that she was a passenger from the car ahead, having lost
104
her bearings, but before I could get into speaking dis-
tance of her she disappeared around the corner. The car
next mine was in charge of Sammy Boldes, an old and
well-liked "regular" on old No. 9 to St. Louis. Entering
Sam's car I found him sitting at the end of the aisle black-
ing shoes.
"Sam," said I, "why do you allow your passengers to
go blundering around to find themselves going to bed
in another car?" "What passengers?" asked he sulkily.
"There are no women in my car, yet one was standing
in the aisle just now and she came this way. Didn't
you see her?" "No; there are only two women in this
car, and they are both asleep there in section 2," an-
swered Sam, jerking his thumb over his shoulder in the
direction of the section indicated. "Where did that
woman go!" I scratched my head in perplexity. "I
guess you've been dreaming," said Sam, looking up at
me out of the corner of his eye ; "you'd better go back
and get to blacking up." I returned to my car, searched
it from end to end in every nook and corner of unoc-
cupied space before settling down to shoe polishing.
The train had again started up and was thundering on
at its usual high speed. My mind had become so per-
turbed over this now apparently mysterious episode that
sleep had entirely forsaken me. When everything had
been gotten in readiness for my passengers who would
now soon be getting up, I sat down by the window and
began to meditate upon the possible truthfulness of
Sam's assertion that I had been dreaming: it seemed
now that I had. I pressed my hand against my fore-
head, it was hot and my temples were throbbing at a
terribly rapid rate. I lay my head upon the window sill
that the autumn winds might cool my temples. "I rang,
Porter," said a soft voice, and turning my head quickly,
I beheld the woman in the night robe, standing in the
door of the smoking-room. She was running her fingers
nervously through her black hair, which hung loosely
down her back, and was staring over my head out
through the window. A damp, sickening odor filled the
room ; and the pale face and hollow eyes of my visitor
105
made it seem that I was in a tomb in the presence of
a resurrected corpse. "What can I do for you, madame !"
I stammered, attempting" to rise. She fixed her gaze
upon me and the look of horror in her hollow eyes
riveted me to the spot, and with a voice that sounded
like some one far away at dead of night, she said, "My
husband is dead. They told me he had gone on ahead
of us, but he had not. He was asleep in section 13
when the crash came. Come ! Help me search !" Beck-
oning eagerly to me to follow her, she disappeared. I
arose to comply, but my limbs refused to support me,
and I fell in a swoon upon the floor.
When I came to myself I lay upon a cot in a large,
plain, white, high-ceiling room. The sun, shining in
through the tall, clean windows, shed its comforting
rays upon upturned faces about me, forcing smiles of
joy and gratitude upon nearly every faded cheek. I was
in a hospital ; a place which through all my life I had
associated with the prison-house of despair; a last
earthly resort, where impatient, inhuman attendants
only waited for a victim to die and did not hesitate to
administer the "black bottle" to hasten the desired end.
By the window nearest my cot stood three white-capped
nurses, one of whom on seeing my eyes turned in that
direction, came and bent over me. "Where am I?" I
asked. "You are in St. Louis, in the Xavia Hospital,
brought here about two weeks ago," she answered
sweetly. "Why was I brought here, please?" I asked
again, trying to penetrate the blank past. "You were
taken off your car at the Union Station, raving with
brain fever. But you must ask no more questions now:
your case is a critical one and your recovery depends
upon absolute quiet." She gently took hold of one of
my wasted hands and held it up for my inspection, to
show how two weeks' illness had told upon me. How
thin and pale it was ! Tucking the covering carefully
about me, she handed me a newspaper, pointed to a
marked item in a corner of the second page, smiled and
walked away. Sure enough ! There it was ; an account
106
of my own illness ! The paper, which was dated Novem-
ber 18th, contained the following brief, i. e., "Porter
in the service of the Pullman Palace Car Com-
pany, was taken off his car this morning at the Union
Station ill with brain fever. The young man was so
violent that it required the efforts of four men to hold
him. He was taken to Xavia Hospital."
Slowly it came back to me ; my journey from New
York with car Egypt ; that woman ! her story of her
lost husband.
Yes, I had been ill, very ill ; my wasted hands showed
it. But that woman with her distressful story was not
the hallucination of a fevered brain. I saw her ! It was
no dream.
A few months afterwards, not having fully recovered
from the effects of that terrible illness, I sat waiting my
turn in Bullouch's barber shop in Jersey City, among a
few other railroad men, with whom was Sammy Boldes.
"Well old boy," said Sam, eyeing me sympa-
thetically, "you've had a pretty tough time of it. You
should have staid at home that night." "I did not feel
the least ill when I left," I answered. "When a man's
fever is so high that he sees ghosts his place is at home
in his bed," said he chuckling. "When we got back
there in answer to the summons of the frightened brake-
man, you were raising Sam Henry about a woman in
'section 13,' and I don't know what all." "What car did
he have?" asked a man whose hair the barber was giving
its finishing touches. "Old car Egypt," said Sam .
"And that woman was no fancy," I persisted. "I saw
her." The man in the chair spoke up again : "There's
something wrong about that old car. I've never seen
anything while in her, but I heard some mighty queer
noises, so much so that I left her one night while laying
over at Memphis, and went up-town to sleep." Porter
Cumming, a veteran in the service, sitting beside me.
raised his eyes from his paper and listened intently to
the conversation concerning the old car, but said noth-
ing. "There's a kind of sickening feeling that I can't
107
explain which came over me when I had that old car; I
felt it mostly when trying to sleep in the smoking-room,"
and to tell you the truth, gentlemen, I believe it's
haunted," concluded the man, as he rose from the chair.
As I left the barber shop and started toward the ferry
to cross to my home in Brooklyn, Porter Cumming
joined me.
"Your talk this morning about old car Egypt recalled
to my mind a very thrilling experience of mine in con-
nection with its history," said he. "That car is haunted,
and I know it! But I have said but little about it to
any one for fear of being ridiculed and looked upon as
'luny.'
"I see that you have been ill; and it was brain fever?"
"But I was perfectly rational as regards the woman in-
cident, regardless of the state of my mind afterwards."
"What did you see?" I related my experience as
minutely as I could remember it. "In the spring of '85,"
he began, "I was running regularly between here and
Washington, leaving Jersey City on the 'Owl' and com-
ing in on old '78.' One morning as I went to the office
to report and 'sign out,' I was told that I with three
other men had been selected to make a special trip to
Los Angeles, Cal., with a bridal party from New York
City. The following day we busied ourselves putting in
the immense stock of provisions required and making
other preparations for the long journey. The party
was to leave that evening, proceeding from the church to
the train. It consisted of the bridal pair, the family phy-
sician, four lady friends, and a man and maid-servant.
At our disposal we had two cars ■ a hotel and observa-
tion car and a sleeper, which of course was car Egypt.
"We were to go direct to Los Angeles, via Chicago,
and remain there about three weeks. From thence we
were to journey southward into Mexico, and make our
way homeward by way of New Orleans. It was indeed a
first class party of rich and cultured people. The bride,
a tall and handsome brunette, was the life of the party,
enslaving us all by her vivacity and sweetness of disposi-
tion ; she entered into everything that meant for making
108
the trip one of pleasure and recreation. One evening,
just eight weeks after leaving New York, we pulled out
of New Orleans, homeward bound over the great Louis-
ville and Nashville railroad. All other trains had been or-
dered to give us the right of way and we thundered up
the road at the rate of fifty miles an hour. A few miles
south of Birmingham, Ala., a freight train having side-
tracked had failed to throw the 'switch,' and our train
rushed into the siding and was wrecked, killing the engi-
neer, severely scalding the fireman and crushing the bride-
groom and the manservant beyond recognition.
"These two slept opposite the bride, who, with others
of the party, escaped with slight bruises. Old car Egypt,
in which they all slept, seemed to have gotten the fullest
force of the blow. It was a pitiful and awful sight to see
that young woman, the bride, pulling her hair in the agony
of her grief as she followed us about in our search for the
missing men; and when the truth was revealed to her she
went completely mad then and there. 'Oh, Frank, don't
sleep in that berth! I'm superstitious. Come, Frank, it's
time to get up. I wonder how long it will be before we
get home, I'm tired of this wearisome journey,' she would
wail softly, and then burst into hysterical laughing and
weeping. I will never as long as I live forget that scene.
A telegram to Birmingham brought down a car-load of
railroad officials and physicians, and the party, with their
belongings, were taken to that city and we saw them no
more. About six months after that I met the lady's maid
on Fifth Avenue in New York and she told me that her
mistress never recovered, but died a raving maniac in a
private asylum in less than two months after reaching
home. The two cars were 'shopped' and completely over-
hauled and made more inviting inside and out. One night
at least a year afterwards, car Egypt was assigned to me
for a trip on the 'owl.' Sitting down at the window to
enjoy a smoke after my passengers had retired, I could
hear that wretched woman's wails and sobs just as plainly
as I heard her on that night. I was so frightened that I
started to go forward into the car ahead of me; but just
109
as I got into the aisle I saw just what you saw in front of
Section 13 — it was that very woman with her head bent
forward precisely as you described her. I turned about,
went back, and stood in the door until the train reached
Washington. And you bet your life I was too sick to
go out when the time came for me to come back to Jersey.
That woman's ghost will follow that car as long as it ex-
ists, and the only way to lay it is to burn car Egypt."
no
'THE CAP'N."
A Pullman Porter's Story.
"Look out for the Cap'n !" Every car service man knew
him from the Lakes to the Gulf, and from Maine to the Pa-
cific Coast. To say that this individual had boarded a
train or alighted from a train on the same line as many
as a hundred miles away has sent a thrill of terror through
many a porter and driven sleep from his eyes. The Cap'n
at one time had been a District Superintendent of the Pull-
man Palace Car Co., but not being a success in that capac-
ity, was promoted ( ?) to the office of "Inspector" — of-er-
Cars — I suppose that was the original meaning or inten-
tion of the authorities — but the name of the office as the
Cap'n filled it was Legion.
He inspected everything, making a specialty of em-
ployes, to whom he was an undying worm and an un-
quenchable fire. Surely the Cap'n entered his true calling
when he was made "Inspector." Nothing pleased the Cap'n
more than to slip up on and catch a porter or conductor
off his guard — "asleep on duty," or "not out with his step-
ping box," or "putting up beds without using the box or
'shamy,' " etc., etc. It was often said of the old fellow
that he was nearer akin to the devil than any other human
being; for, like his satanic majesty, he was omnipresent,
often appearing like a spectre before unwary conductors
and porters while trains were running at their highest
speed. This I cannot vouch for, but I do know that he
has often put himself to the inconvenience of standing for
hours at some secluded flag station in order to slyly board a
train at its foremost end and sneak back to the sleeper to
loook for irregularities to report. "Look out for the
Cap'n!" This was the familiar warning throughout the
in
length and breadth of country wherever the Pullman car
has rolled. Men often sent telegrams of warning — "TRe
Cap'n got off at station ! Look out !" "Look out
for the Cap'n, he may get on your train out of Jersey
City tonight.
He entered a sleeping car one night, and, finding the
porter asleep, seated himself beside him that he might
fill the poor wretch with terror when he awoke. But the
old fellow, being tired, was soon himself fast asleep. The
train conductor passing, and seeing through the Cap'n's
trick, gently awakened the porter, pointed to the
sleeper beside him and went on his way. When the Cap'n
awoke the porter was at the other end of the car blacking
shoes. This incident was never reported.
The first time that I encountered the old gentleman was
just two months after my entrance into the service of the
company. He boarded a Coast Line train out from Jersey
City, N. J., one evening, and to my discomfort paid very
much attention to the car under my charge. After search-
ing every hole and corner in the car, it seemed to me he
paused in the aisle to watch me make beds. Beckoning me
to him, finally he said: "Remove that toothpick from your
mouth, Porter; it doesn't look well." I complied and went
on with my work. He remained and watched me for a
few moments longer, then went on into the car ahead of
mine. About two trips after this incident, on entering the
superintendent's office in Jersey City the chief clerk called
me to his desk and read to me the following report : "On
car Severn, out of Jersey City, train No. 15, August, 23,
1888, I noticed that the porter held a toothpick between
his teeth. I called him to me and gently requested that he
remove it, as it did not look well. In complying, he acted
surly, threw the toothpick behind him, I think on a pas-
senger's lap, and angrily flaunted the sheets and blankets
in the passengers' faces." "Shameless liar!" I answered
inwardly, as I bit my lips. Truthful as I might be and
honest, his word would carry all the weight, I thought, as
I stood there like a criminal condemned and awaiting sen-
tence. I was too astonished at the Judas-like duplicity of
this old chap in whose presence I had done my best, to Jo
112
more than to say that it was reasonable to suppose that I
would be extremely careful of my conduct in the presence
of the man whose power and reputation I so well knew,
even for that length of time in the Pullman service. ''You
must try and cultivate better manners," answered the chief
clerk, handing me a slip of paper, which read as follows:
''Porter D. B. Fulton, you are hereby suspended for five
days, your salary to cease from now until September 2d,
1888.'' Five days' pays was quite a good deal to lose out of
a small salary — and for nothing. I left the office with
tempest raging in my soul and with a strong desire to
catch "by the throat the uncircumcised dog" who could so
abuse his authority as to so brazenly utter an untruth and
thereby do injury to an humble fellow. I learned after-
wards that the best way to avoid getting into trouble with
this old fellow was to flatter him; follow him about the
car whenever he boarded it; ask very anxiously about his
health, his wife's health ; invite him into your 'buffet" to
help himself to your choicest whiskies, wines, and cigars,
or the best lunch you could prepare. The porter that fol-
lowed this course in his treatment of the Cap'n never got
an ill report, it mattered not in what condition he or his car
was found.
What a character for such a position ! Extremely selfish
and revengeful, the old fellow was ever ready to resent
even what seemed to be a disregard for him in his official
capacity. It is said that he followed one porter for years
against whom he held a grudge, seeking to find something
against him to report. But as this man ran regularly be-
tween Philadelphia and Pittsburgh and was old in the ser-
vice, it was difficult to lodge a complaint against him that
would cause him to lose more than time required to write
a statement. The superintendents in these respective dis-
tricts knew well the Cap'n's duplicity, sensitiveness and sel-
fishness; and this feeling of disregard for him often con-
signed his reports to the waste basket as malicious false-
hoods. This porter, knowing of the Cap'n's unpopularity
in the two districts mentioned, and the high esteem in which
the respective superintendents were held by the company,
113
never let slip an opportunity to show his contempt for the
old fellow, thereby making him writhe in indignation and
desire for revenge. Passing through old "number ten" at
Harrisburgh one night the Cap'n found his old enemy fast
asleep on duty ; and so delighted was he over the anticipated
sweet draught of revenge that he jumped out upon the sta-
tion platform and shouted, "I've got th' coon at last!
I've got th' coon at last!" "Who is it, Cap'n?" asked sev-
eral trainmen, who gathered around, attracted by the old
fellow's antics. "Why, it's ol' Joe, fast asleep." But al-
though his report of the incident was carefully worded,
dwelling at length upon the importance of "the careful
guarding of cars," "the prevalence of thieves in large
stations," the "liabilities of the company in the event of
robberies through the incompetency of employees," etc.,
he could not effect the loss to "Joe" of a single day. Tob
Jones and the Cap'n were old cronies ; and it is alleged that
his liking for Tob often hid a multitude of faults — and Tob
had faults by the multitude. But the Cap'n caught Tob in
a predicament one night, however, that would have caused
him to shake his brother and it was only Tob's cunning that
saved him from being shook, for Tob Jones was not easily
trapped. The Cap'n, knowing that Tob was in charge of a
certain car, boarded it at Harrisburgh — not to give his
friend trouble, but for a friendly chat; the Cap'n wouldn't
"peach" on Tob if it could be avoided. He searched the
car from end to end, but saw nothing of the "faithful"
Tobias. Passing through a third time in despair, the Cap'n
discovered Tob's black-socked foot protruding from between
the curtains of an upper berth. Seizing this extremity, the
old fellow called in a stage whisper, "Tobias! Tobias!
Tobias !" Now, it's only the veteran porter that can awaken
decently, without stretching, yawning, garping and blandly
betraying himself. Tobias was an expert. The first tug
at Tob's foot awoke him, but he didn't move ; not he. When
the Cap'n made a third tug, Tob eased his foot in, poked
out his head and gave his old friend one of those freezing
yet mirth-provoking stares, which only Tob could give.
"She-e-e Cap'n," he whispered, "I'm watchin' 'im, I'm got
114
ma eye on 'im." "What is the matter, Tob?" asked the
Cap'n impatiently. "She-e-e! dars er man in disher neath
berth heah, pok'n his han' roun' dar an' tryin' ter rob dat
lady in de one er head but I'm on ter 'im ; I heered you
when you fus cum in, but I wanted ter keep ma eye on dis
feller," concluded Tob, stretching his eyes and spreading his
huge palm before the now deeply interested Cap'n to make
his words the more impressive. "That's right, Tob," said
the Cap'n, passing on. The old fellow learned how badly
he had been fooled when, one evening, he passed through
the station at Jersey City and overheard some men laugh-
ing and talking about how Tob had outwitted the Cap'n.
It was the Cap'n's delight to sit in district superintendents '
offices and relate his many amusing experiences with em-
ployees on the roads. One day, away down South, he came
across a car side-tracked in quite a lonely spot, went
through it and found it deserted. A few rods away, in a
watermelon patch, he came upon the conductor and porter,
who, having filled up on the juicy fruit, had spread a towel
on the ground and were earnestly engaged in the game of
"seven up." Cautiously approaching the two men, the
Cap'n said: "Excuse me, gentlemen, but are you in charge
of that car over yonder?" "Yas, we's in charge er dat
kiar over yander ; an' wut erbout hit?" answered the colored
man, without even looking up at the questioner. "I thought
that if you were you are quite a distance from your charge,
that's all," returned the Cap'n. "Dat ar kiar ain't gonter
run erway — yo' deal, Cap" (to the conductor). "If anybody
starts off with her, I reckon we can overhaul 'em before
they can get far away, old man," said the conductor care-
lessly. "I beg Jim" (to the porter). "Some people's all de
time mekin' deyself fresh 'bout deseyer kiars," said the
porter, issuing a couple of cards to the conductor. "Sup-
pose the Cap'n should come along and find that car un-
guarded?" "Who de hell's de Cap'n?" demanded the porter.
"He's nobody's daddy," chimed in the conductor. "Cut the
cards, Jim" (to the porter). "There seems to be so much
red tape about this sleeping car business," he continued.
"Why, a fellow can't go out and get a quiff of fresh air and
"5
recreation but what he's got to be ding-donged at about
'the rules' and 'the Cap'n;' damn the Cap'n!" "An' I say
de same," exclaimed the porter; "good fer nuthin' ol' flop-
yeared varmint. High, low, Jack an' de game!"
"My feelings at this stage had become so wrought up
over these unexpected compliments that I could restrain
myself no longer. Snatching out my notebook, I exclaimed :
'I'm the Cap'n, and I demand that you get on that car and
be quick about it.' The nigger rolled all the way to the
car and rolled in at the window, while the astonished and
frightened conductor walked behind me making excuses
and apologies ; he was new in the service and unacquainted
with the rules, etc. I let them off with ten days each."
JACK THORNE.
116
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